Life's a Bed of Thorns: The Cadence
by Sarah Rose Serena
Summary: People say it's darkest before the dawn. But people are as wrong about that as they are about everything. Because a new darkness is on the horizon, one of insidious intentions, coming not for just one but for them all. And dawn has long since past. It won't be returning any time soon. E/D/S and more.
1. Howl

**Life's a Bed of Thorns - The Saga**

**Arc II: The Cadence (A Time For Change)**

_~ From SarahRoseSerena ~_

_"Sleeping on a bed of thorns is bad for the soul. Elena knows this better than anyone. Ever since she woke up in a world she no longer recognized. A world darkened by night, lit by new moons, & dirtied by spilt blood. Love is a battlefield, alright. And every day, she gains one more scar. But what's a girl to do? When it's real, you just can't walk away."_

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**Entry 1: Howl**

Elena spent Friday night at the boarding house, only to be woken at the crack of dawn Saturday morning by a jubilant Grace and dragged out for a run. It was only the rousing of the wolf in her that made her tag along. And 5 miles later, the girls were racing back up the driveway and into the house. Elena won, of course. Grace was fast, sure, and with great form, but no match for a werewolf.

She'd discovered that hardcore exercise was a good way to start the day off, now more than ever. It helped burn off all that excess energy the wolf kept pent up right from the get-go. It was a godsend for control and calm. She wouldn't have thought that the solution to handling her inner werewolf would be as simple as a vigorous workout. But she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Something else she'd discovered this week? Grace was an excellent sparring partner. The redheaded witch was an electropath, meaning part of her power was the ability to summon and control electricity. But before she learned how to control it, her Gran had brought her to the local Sensei for lessons of self-defense. That was when she was thirteen. She'd been studying bits and pieces of mixed martial arts ever since. And as a way of making up for her mate's lack of control—nice words for the whole _trying to kill her_ thing—Grace had set her mind to it that she would teach Elena how to fight.

That was Tuesday. So for the past four days they'd been retreating to the lower levels of the boarding house, which were a sort of catacomb type structure of a winding corridor and various different offshoots. One of the storage cellars had been cleared out and converted into a makeshift dojo at some point in time.

It was a decent sized box room with an industrial mat layering the center of the paved floor, hooks and fixtures lining two of the brick walls with weapons and workout equipment, a heavy bag hung in one corner made with hessian, and other assortments. But, other than the small rectangular windows that lined the top of one wall, the room was completely closed off, and it was driving the wolf crazy.

Grace was most comfortable with a mix 'n' match of styles. Centrally judo, a bit of jujitsu, and a few elements of tai chi most suited her. So that's what she'd introduced Elena to, though once they'd really gotten into it, they'd devolved into mostly basic kickboxing.

This morning, they'd just ended Round 2 of the art of joint locking when Grace called it quits. "Stop, stop. I need a break," she panted, bending over and clutching at her side as she held out her other hand to keep the teenager at bay.

The adrenaline pumping through her system was powerful stuff, so it took a few minutes of shifting on the balls of her feet before Elena could rein herself in. She still hadn't gotten used to this endless supply of stamina and agility. It was hard to keep in mind that she could suddenly outlast someone who'd been training over half their life. "I had no idea this was defense _and_ anatomy," she joked.

"Hey," Grace said as she trudged her way toward the stairs. "You gotta understand the body to know how to best manipulate it to your advantage."

"True." Elena cut around to the old refrigerator that was tucked into the nook beneath the staircase and grabbed two bottled waters before she lowered herself down onto the bottom step beside the winded redhead and tossed her one.

"You've been picking this up awfully fast," Grace mentioned, taking a sip of her water and swiping a wrist over her brow, shoving sticky hair out of her face.

Elena shrugged and bent forward, resting her arms on her thighs as she arched her spine. "Turns out it's not that much different from dance or gymnastics. All about being aware of your body and how it moves."

"It's certainly an interesting combination," Grace added while she set her bottle by her feet and pulled her hair up off her neck, still trying to catch her breath. "That reverse aerial you used as a dodge was incredible."

Again, Elena shrugged. "It was instinct."

"But you'll have to be careful. Certain times, moves like that really give you the upper hand. Not always, though, and you'll have to keep in mind that against multiple opponents it'd just be a detriment."

Elena nodded, tilting her head back and chugging down the rest of her bottle then tossing it into the small wastebasket beside the mouth of the stairway. She leaned her elbows back against the steps above her and stretched her legs out in front of her, watching as Grace moved back to the center of the room and started performing a slow tai chi routine to wind down and keep her muscles from cramping up. "Can I ask you something?"

Grace was solely focused on her body, so she didn't so much as glance the other girl's way at the question. But she did respond. "You can ask whatever you want, honey. That's no guarantee I'll give you an answer, though."

"You seem like a pretty decent person."

That made Grace chuckle, almost knocking her off her precarious balance. "I sure like to think of myself that way."

"So what are you doing with Nicholas?" There was no way to ask without coming off as rude, so she didn't even bother trying.

Grace's bright Irish eyes slid sidelong to find Elena, but her face gave nothing away. "I don't expect you to cut him any slack. If I were in your position, I wouldn't even consider it. But Nico's not evil. He's just not human." Grace paused to give a wistful sigh, staring off into infinity. "There is good and bad in us all, and at any given moment the scale within us can shift."

"Yes," Elena admitted softly, falling into her own thoughts.

"I won't try to convince you about him. But I will defend myself." She cracked a wry grin then spun on the sword of one foot and transferred her body's statuesque position, increasing the strain of stillness. "I try to keep my soul good. I try to avoid compromising my morals for love. Sometimes that's just not possible. But mostly—" She paused for a thoughtful shrug. "The conflict of interest is livable."

Elena came to her feet, moving onto the mat. "But there are certain prices you have to pay for loving a vampire?"

Grace laughed, a full-on burst of genuine laughter that made her face glow. She dropped her careful posture and turned to face the approaching girl. "I've been with Nico since I was 14," she said lightly. "He helped shape my conscience. And I have to say that in my opinion it's a damn good one."

Elena held her tongue on that, giving it some thought as the two began circling one another without preamble. "Can I ask how old you are now?"

Grace flashed an easy grin. "As of last month: twenty-six."

Elena shook her head, twirling a wavy lock of dark hair over her shoulder, dusting it out of her way as she found her footing. "You've been with him for twelve years," she murmured. "That's a long time."

"Sure is."

"Do you know what you're going to do?" she asked with a small furrow of her brow. They were still dancing around one another, biding their time. "I mean, he's immortal. You're . . . not."

Grace shrugged, still holding that easy expression, though something darker flickered through her sparkling eyes. "At this point in time, I can't say that it's ever occurred to me that Nico would ever _not_ be a part of my life. The rest of it isn't important yet." The redhead didn't hesitate even a second after finishing her sentence before she pivoted forward, swinging a crescent kick with a high aim.

Elena twirled out of the kick's reach, narrowly avoiding a swipe to the cheek. "Would he want to turn you?" she asked, ducking below an openhanded strike and landing a halfhearted jab to the redhead's solar plexus.

"We went through that particular blowout on my eighteenth birthday. He's been waiting for me to give him permission. I still haven't decided." Grace blocked two more of Elena's strikes and caught her left arm in a wristlock. "Right now I have no desire to become a vampire. But who knows what I'll want in a year or two or a decade. I've got nothing but time . . . until I don't. It's the way of life."

The quick brunette countered with a knee-to-thigh hit, using the moment of impact to weasel out of the lock and leap out of reach. "Very inspirational," she teased, earning a cheeky grin.

"So, what about you?" she wanted to know. "You have any plans for getting fanged?"

They laughed, Grace spun a roundhouse kick, and Elena dropped to a crouch then rolled forward and landed on her feet. "Well, before I hadn't given it much thought. My first instinct would be no. But then the whole werewolf thing happened, and now I doubt it'd even be possible, not that I'd want to. But there's just too much about what I am now that I don't know to risk something like that."

"Nico says it could be dangerous," Grace told her. She darted forward, feigning right with a sideway strike. When the younger girl reacted, Grace used the momentum from the unfinished strike to swing downward and swipe Elena's legs out from under her. "But lupines have incredible longevity."

Flat on her back, Elena watched the older woman back away to her own corner of the mat, patient and attentive. "You're saying I might be immortal?"

Grace gave a small shrug of her shoulders and looked away. "Once a lupine reaches prime maturity the aging process ends."

Elena took in a steadying breath, pinning her eyes to the cracked plaster of the ceiling, and launched herself upright with a fluid straight legged kip-up. "Who's to say when my prime maturity is?" she asked tersely, sailing across the mat and revitalizing the fight with a charged energy of turmoil. Amidst a flurry of blows, blocks, and dodges she persisted, pushing Grace to the limit of her instincts. "Will I even know? How many birthdays will it take before I realize that my body stopped back at twenty or twenty-five? What will I say to my family, my friends, when they wonder why they're graying and I still look like a teenager?"

"The truth," the redhead ground out through her teeth, hunching over and slanting away from a succession of jabs as she struggled to recover from a firm sole to the vulnerable spot above her pubic bone. Finally, they hit a momentary standstill when she managed to catch the girl's wrist before her locked fingers could collide with Grace's larynx.

Panting and flushed, Elena resigned to a hold she could break in her sleep. "I never asked for all of this."

Grace met the intensity in the girl's eyes unflinchingly. "I know," she told her firmly. "I know."

The silent staring session that proceeded was disrupted when someone cleared their throat, making Elena jerk out of the hold and spin, giving the room her back as she hurried to get a grip on herself. She knew who had cut in on them. She could feel the tingle of awareness running along her skin at his presence.

"Mind if I cut in?" Damon asked—a perfunctory toss of words at best, because the underlying order was unmistakable.

"You've got perfect timing," Grace joked. "I've just been outclassed." She cast one last glance at Elena's back before she made her way off the mat and toward the stairway. After bending to pick up her water bottle, she paused as she passed Damon on the mouth of the staircase. "A worked-up werewolf is more than even I can handle in a fight, even a friendly one."

"Maybe I'll be more of a match then," Damon added, coming down into the room and circling wide.

Grace got one step up the stairs before she turned to glance over her shoulder. "Take advantage of him, Elena. He's a damn fine punching bag."

"I'll keep that in mind," she answered, turning back to them at last with one corner of her mouth quirked up. Her rich hazel eyes stayed on the witch's back until she was out of sight.

When the upstairs door clicked shut and they were alone, she turned toward Damon . . . only to find his eyes lingering somewhere below her face. Frowning, she glanced down at herself to find a sweaty mess. In a black sports bra and hip-hugging yoga pants, there was a lot of glistening skin exposed.

"You snuck out while I was asleep," he told her inscrutably. His clear azure eyes still lingered over her body. Strangely enough, though, there was no leer in that gaze. Only something she'd never seen before. Something she couldn't even begin to understand and wasn't in the right mind to try.

"Sorry," she said with an awkward shrug. Her eyes skated around the room while she floundered for something better to say.

"Have I told you how _hot_ this is?" he wondered, sauntering toward her with that familiarly shameless swagger. "You—learning to fight, and in these skimpy little outfits, too. They are for my benefit, aren't they?"

_And he's back_, she thought. "They're called workout clothes, Damon." She smirked, moving to counter his advance until they were practically dancing around the mat without contact. "It's just logistics, no aesthetics involved. These allow for ultimate flexibility. But if it makes your ego feel better, go right on ahead and think whatever you will."

"Hey," he said in a mock defensive tone and held up his hands for her. "I'm all about maximizing rotational velocity, baby."

Elena shook her head at him—at the way suggestion flickered through his eyes. "How is it that you manage to put a lewd alternative meaning behind every single thing you say?"

He shrugged in one briefly graceful motion. "Just a talent I was born with."

"Ah-Huh," she murmured dryly as she let him box her into the corner.

Elena stilled, biding her time until he went to move in. Then she drew back onto one foot and snapped the other up and around, catching him in the side with her shin. Without waiting, she drew back onto both feet and spun out again, lashing a sharp front kick toward his abdomen. He caught her ankle and gave her calf a good jerk with his other hand, pulling her off her feet and twirling her around, reversing their positions. She tucked, rolled, and landed in the middle of the mat.

"Elena," he chided mockingly. "Surprise attacks aren't permitted for sparring. Especially such vicious ones," he added, and rubbed at the phantom pain in his side while she used the momentum of the tuck to push off the mat, arching up and over in a back walkover that brought her solidly on her feet across from him.

"I'm sorry. Did I blindside you?" she taunted, circling with him.

His smirk was both amused and proud. "Don't get cocky, princess. It'll be your downfall."

"Seems to work for you," she smarmed, tipping her head to one side like a wolf and smiling. A second later, she leapt.

He sidestepped her, very narrowly avoiding being tackled to the mat, and spun to watch the instinctive round-off she used to soak up the momentum. She hadn't even settled upright fully before she twirled back at him with a seamless calf kick that landed in his ribs and knocked the wind out of him. A swipe to the back of the knees took his feet out from under him.

She followed him down to the mat, straddling his chest and pinning his shoulders to the ground with her knees. She bent forward, bracing her palms against the mat to steady her advantaged position. The crooks of his arms were trapped between the back of her thighs and calves before he could even think of counterattacking.

Then she looked down at him and smirked, reveling in the heady thrill that coursed through her body like fire and electricity all rolled into one. "Don't get cocky, you say?"

Damon thrust his hips up, trying to gain enough leverage to flip them. But she increased pressure and kept him pinned. He only chuckled, and sent vibrations from his chest up into the apex of her thighs, awakening an insatiable itch that made her face scrunch unhappily. His breathy voice drew goosebumps along her sweaty arms, making her shiver as his lips twitched knowingly. "If you wanted to be on top, all you had to do was ask."

"Where's the fun in that?" she countered, lifting her brow at him—only to let out a surprised _eek_ when he jerked his arms out to the side, ripping them from her hold and setting her off balance.

With a superior smirk, Damon curved his large hands over her sides in a firm grip then threw her up and away with a sudden burst of preternatural strength. On instinct, Elena's body curled protectively as she was flung backward, moving to accommodate. She ended up using the momentum of his shove to flip her folded body over and land with her feet together, like a pitch tuck.

He was up and on her instantly. They fell together with the force of their bodies impacting and Elena landed flat on her back with the length of Damon pinning her to the floor. "Where'd you get all these acro moves?" he asked, smirking jovially as she wriggled beneath him.

"Uh, hello, former varsity cheerleader here, remember?"

Damon's face lit up like a kid at Christmas. "Oh, that's _right. _Hey, you don't still have the uniform, do you?" He ground his hips against hers for emphasis and Elena tossed her head back, letting out a throaty laugh.

"Don't even think about it." The second she said it, Elena bent her knees up, planted her soles against the mat, and kicked off. She used that momentum to hook her knees over his shoulders and then threw her full body weight into it at just the right second, shoving him up and over. She opened her thighs over his chest as his back smacked into the mat, just barely getting her knees out of the way of impact.

Before she could steady her hold, he gripped the nape of her neck and waist, rolling them sideways, and they were right back where they started. He smoothed his hands up her arms, forcing them above her head and stretching her slippery body taut. "Are you sure?" he drawled with a suggestive lilt.

Elena stilled beneath him, submitting to his pin and letting the relaxation of that ripple through her, easing the tension. The wolf stirred at the hot touch of lust he forced on her. Breathy and heavy-lidded, Elena knew this was going to quickly get out of hand if she didn't cool down.

"Have you heard anything from Stefan?" she blurted out a fraction of a second before his mouth would've crushed hers.

Like a splash of ice water, Damon went cold. The dark look that crept through his shining aquamarine eyes was enough to close up her throat. His stare burned through her, and his mouth twisted up for a long moment. Finally, his gaze went over her head and he cursed, rolling over onto his back beside her.

"Why are you asking me?" he groused tightly. "If he was going to keep in touch with someone, it'd be you."

Elena heaved a weary sigh and smoothed a hand over her head, pushing back all the unruly strands that had fallen free from her ponytail. "He's sent a few texts," she told him. "But all he'll tell me is that it's taking longer than he thought and he doesn't know when he'll be back." She turned her head to the side, pressing her cheek to the mat as she looked over at him. "I figure he might be more upfront with you if there's something dangerous going on."

Damon's attention was fixed on the ceiling. The loose set of his shoulders made him appear at ease. "Missing him already, princess? It's only been a week."

Elena propped up onto her elbow, hand holding up her head, lying stretched out on her side. "Just worried," she murmured. "But now that you mention it, you'd miss him too, you know." She paused just long enough for him to send her a dubious look. "If he were gone for long enough," she insisted confidently, her voice lowering to a whispery octave. "You would and we both know it, whether you can admit it to yourself or not."

Damon just kept staring up at the ceiling. "Keep dreaming, princess."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jeremy had just come out of Princeton Records and was headed down the sidewalk, which was lazy with early afternoon inactivity, when he spotted Bonnie. She was sitting all by herself at a café table on the patio of the Mystic Grill, sipping at an iced latte and skimming through a fresh paperback.

Taking a deep breath for bravery, he made his way up to her and plopped down into the empty chair at her table. "Hey, what's up?"

The young witch flipped the page of her book then rolled her eyes slowly up to his face, blinking at him with a vacuous expression. "Nothing," she said with suspicion that crinkled her delicate brow.

Jeremy watched her dust her fingers over her forehead, shifting the fringe of fluffy bangs there. He just noticed then that her typically shoulder-length bouncy ringlets had been straightened until it brushed along her collarbone. The bangs were new too. "I like what you've done with your hair," he said awkwardly, then had to keep himself from cringing at the total lameness of himself.

Bonnie cleared her throat, focusing pointedly on her book. "Thanks."

"Um, so, I've been thinking . . ."

Eyes still on her paperback, Bonnie lifted an eyebrow. "About?"

"About when we were all trying to keep Ellie from going wolfy at the full moon." He took another bracing breath and propped his forearms on the table as he slanted toward her, yearning for her attention yet not knowing how to get it. "Me and you—I mean, I dunno. I just kinda thought that we made a good team. Sorta."

Bonnie raised her gaze, setting the book down in front of her and cradling her latte. Eyes narrowed curiously on him, she pulled the green straw between her teeth and sipped.

"Uh, right," he said and raked a hand through his lank hair, tucking it behind his ear. His heart was pounding in his ears. He wasn't a ladies' man, by any means. But he didn't usually get so flustered. Besides, this was Bonnie—Elena's best friend since grade school. He'd never worried about how to act around her. This was _Bonnie_ for Christ's sake. So why was he acting like an idiot now? It should be simple. Just do it. "So, I figured that maybe we could do something. Together. You and me, I mean. Just to see . . ."

"Jeremy," she cut in even as his voice trailed off. "Is this you asking me out?"

He pulled back, sinking against the curved back of the café chair with an exhausted huff. "Yeah, I guess it is."

She stared for a long moment, searching his face as if he'd thoroughly stumped her. And he fidgeted under the scrutiny. Finally, she leaned forward, steepled her hands against her lips, and squinted. "Are you sure about this?" she asked. "You're sure you're not just suffering temporary insanity?"

He bristled. "I'm completely serious. And if you're just going to mock me—"

"_Well_," she drawled. He watched as her eyes grew wide and her mocha face smoothed out with decision. "No more mocking."

"So?" he groused, folding his arms. "What do you say?"

Bonnie pursed her lips, murmuring unintelligibly to herself for a few seconds before she planted her hands flat against the glass tabletop and nodded. "Sure."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The experience of warm water and honeysuckle scented bubbles enveloping her was like heaven for Elena. She'd taken her hair down, sunken her sweaty body into the deepness of the clawfoot porcelain basin, and thrown her head back as she felt the knotted tension of her muscles melt like butter.

She was in one of the master baths. Only this place was more of a suite than a bathroom. The flooring was rosewood rather than common linoleum, covered centrally by a maroon and flaxen shaded Persian rug, and creamy mocha wallpaper that made it much softer than the majority of the house. The extra-wide free-standing bathtub was the room's focal point, aligned with the rectangular oriel window that took up nearly a whole wall, width wise, and cast rays of golden afternoon light around. The vanity sink and mirror were tucked into the corner while the ivory toilet was hidden behind a seclusion wall. Ivory pillar candles lined the windowsill.

It was perfect. So incredibly peaceful, so wonderful . . . and then the door swung open and Damon waltzed in, making Elena's brow furrow.

There went her R and R.

He softly kicked the door shut and fell back against it with his thumbs hooked into the loops of his slacks. His eyes were aqua in the sunlit room and languidly attentive as they roamed over his view. "Enjoying yourself, princess?"

"Immensely," she purred. "So, if you don't mind." She made a lazy "scat" gesture with her hand and settled back against the sloped porcelain.

He made a small noise deep in his throat, drawing her eyes open just in time to see him reach up, fist a hand in the fabric of the white T-shirt between his shoulders, and tug it off. The cotton dropped to his feet while he toed out of his socks and unfastened his belt buckle.

Elena started to sit up. "What do you think you're doing?"

"What does it look like?" he asked, stepping out of his slacks and kicking the discarded pile of clothes toward the hamper in the corner by the door. His hands went for the waistband of his boxers and she gripped the rim of the tub.

"Oh, nah-uh, get out of here." She was shaking her head in denial but he just kept moving toward her. "Damon, I'm serious. This is _alone_ time. Don't think you can just—"

"Just what?" he cut in, arching a dark eyebrow as he lowered himself to perch on the edge of the tub. Elena drew her knees up to her chest, pressing back against the slope to use a shield of froth to cover herself. "If you've forgotten, you got me all sweaty." He glanced down at himself for emphasis then slanted sideways over the water, propping himself up over her with one hand against the opposite rim. "A nice hot bubble bath sounds pretty appealing at the moment," he murmured, drawing her eyes to his mouth.

"Great, go get your own. There's like twenty bathrooms in this place."

He tilted his head, quirking up the edges of his lips for her. "Four, actually, other than this room—one off the den, two on the second floor, one on the third story, and none of them have you . . . bare, soapy, and wet on a porcelain platter."

Elena lifted her stubborn chin at him. "I'm not in the mood."

At that, he laughed—a husky rumble of amusement that tickled her from the inside out. "Who are you trying to fool, Elena?" He drew his free hand up and dusted back the wet tendrils of hair stuck to her face and neck, tucking them behind her ear. "The scent of your desire is like perfume lingering in the air, hot and sweet and rich . . . and by no means unnoticeable." He drew the fingertip of his index down the bridge of her nose and leaned in even further. His lips were nearly brushing her cheek as they moved with his quiet words now. "You should be able to smell it, too, with that little upgraded nose of yours."

"Damon," she whispered. Her lashes fluttered under heavy lids as he moved in for a meandering kiss. Then, when he finally drew back enough for her to breathe, she looked up, met his clear gaze, and laid a firm hand on his chest to push him away. "No."

He gave her another of those throaty chuckles as he drew away, adding just a snippet of a condescending lilt, and rose to all of his 6'1 height. "You really think you can stop me?" he mused laughingly, making her bristle.

She waited until he turned his back on her—reaching into the vanity's cabinet for a loofah—then she snatched up the showerhead from its cradling hook at the other end of the tub and bumped on the faucet. When he spun back around, she pelted him with a spray of icy water, knocking him back against the vanity in surprise. The irritation in her fled the second she caught sight of the look on his face, replaced swiftly with a succession of giddy laughter as she hurried to shove the showerhead under the surface of bathwater in order to avoid flooding the room.

Pitifully drenched, Damon stared at her for a few endless moments, stunned, before he blinked it away and swiped a hand over his face. He shook his head like a wet dog, splashing her with pinprick icicles from the soaked strands of his dark hair. Then he raked his hand through it, pushing it back from his face, and took one measured step in her direction.

Elena bolted upright, eyes wide. "Stay back," she warned and made like she'd raise the sprayer again if he came any closer. Truth be told, she was a little afraid. That look in his eye set her nerves on edge. "I mean it, just keep your distance."

With the focused intensity of a predator, Damon moved his head from side to side, slow and easy, his eyes never wavering from his prey. "_Nope_ . . ." he drawled.

_This is bad_, sister wolf chimed in. _Escape_.

And Elena couldn't have agreed more. The second his foot touched the floor once more, she flung herself up out of the water and onto her feet, then went to leap out of the tub, aiming for the door. But she hadn't made it an inch before his immovable arm was latched around her waist, picking her up off her feet. She yipped in part surprise, part protest, part terror, and wriggled frantically as he twisted them around and pivoted downward.

They landed with a sonorous splash, his body shielding her from the harsh collision with the porcelain. Without hesitating, she slipped around and slithered away, not stopping until her back hit the slope of the tub and they were on opposite ends, legs still tangled. He came up out of the water with a gasp of air, spitting out soapy water, then immediately bent at the waist, coming for her.

"No!" she shrieked. "Damon! No! I'm serious! I'm completely serious! Don't you dare! No, stop, I—_oh_! Oh God!" she wailed, squirming and thrashing, desperate to worm her way out of his grasp as he pummeled her with a merciless assault of tickling. "Stop, stop, please, I'm sorry! I can't take it! Damon, please!"

Finally, finally, finally he relented. She slipped limply down the slope, so exhausted she didn't even mind the dig of the faucet into the crown of her head, and he leaned back against his end with a satisfied grin, as if he'd put her in her place and had the right to be smug about it. _Bastard_, she though weakly, still panting.

After a few moments of recuperation, Elena hooked her arms over the rim of the tub above her head and let her spine arch like a bow. The extended posture made her body hum, and the lazy rhythm of his palms treading up and down her legs threatened to lull her into a nap as her heart rate calmed.

"I think you bruised my ribs," she murmured deliriously.

"Serves you right," he drawled.

She managed to crack her eyelids enough to see his face from across the way and discovered him staring. She stared back on instinct, letting the resultant connection zing through her, a palpable energy that coursed through her. He had kaleidoscope eyes, like she'd never seen before. Most of the time, those irises were a clear aquamarine. But rich with intensity or emotion, they darkened to a deep shade of spring green. Other times, they appeared so clear and crystalline that they reminded her of tropical oceans, a startling cerulean of blues. At the moment, they were iceberg shaded, flecks of cloudless summer sky coloring the undertones.

His glossy raven hair was slick and dripping, overgrown edges sticking to his skin, reaching just below his eyebrows, partially hiding the shells of his ears, tickling the nape of his neck. The water droplets kinking up his eyelashes glittered like prisms as the sunlight hit him, and she found herself licking her lips, wanting to run her fingertips over his bone structure. Just to touch him.

As if he'd read her mind—which wasn't impossible, since she wasn't wearing her vervain locket—Damon tried to pull her to him. Only it didn't exactly work out properly, because he wrapped a hand around her calf and tried to tug her to him, which only succeeded in sliding her down the slope and under the bubble-blanketed water with a surprised yelp.

Elena came up spluttering soapy mouthfuls of bathwater and glaring through the sheet of hair that'd plastered to her face.

"Whoops." Damon twisted his mouth for effect, hands falling onto her crooked knees beneath the surface with a furrowed brow and a hapless shrug. "My bad."

Elena just sat there in the center of the bubble bath and continued to glare.

"Oh, c'mon, it wasn't on purpose."

"Yeah, right," she snorted, only to be thrust into a coughing fit.

With a deep sigh, Damon reached forward, wrapped her up, and twirled her around, then pulled her back until she was propped against his chest, curled up between his legs. He moved one hand to rake through her plastered hair, combing it out of her face, and rested his other arm heavily around her body from shoulder to hip. Elena leaned her head back against his collarbone and sighed.

"Were you different?"

"Hmm?" he murmured, tracing patterns in the frothy residue that clung to her with his fingertips.

Elena turned her head until her face was pressed to the curve of his throat, tucked at the underside of his jaw. "Before you were turned, were you a different person?" she asked softly, letting her eyes fall shut.

Damon tensed beneath her, almost imperceptibly. Almost. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," she sighed. Then she caught his wandering hand and pinioned it between both of her own, using the pads of her thumbs to explore his wet palm.

He held tense for a long moment, frozen, while she played with his hand, being intentionally oblivious. Finally, he released the breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding and allowed himself to loosen, melting around her. He dipped down and pressed his forehead to the curve of her shoulder, burrowing his face in her slick hair as it bunched across her back. "Of course I was a different person," he said against her skin. "I was human."

"But were you still this Damon? Or was it your vampire life that shaped who you are now?"

He gave her a put-upon sigh and tightened his arm around her, scooting down in the bathtub for a more comfortable lounging position, which brought the lapping water higher up her chest, almost to her chin. "Well, the word _repressed_ comes to mind," he mused lightly, giving a wry chuckle. "I wasn't ever a good ol' boy. But I had propriety. I was a gentleman at heart—that has to be the biggest difference."

She swiveled her torso around in the water, putting her back to the wall of porcelain to look up into his face with a small smile. "Damon Salvatore, the genuine gentleman?" She squinted, pursed her lips, and then shook her head as mirth glinted in her deep hazel eyes. "I just can't buy it."

He flashed a quick grin at her. "I said it was the biggest difference, didn't I?"

"Mm," Elena murmured, slipping her fingers between his of the hand she still held captive, cradled lazily to her chest. She let her head drop back down to his shoulder and rested her cheek against the cool flesh there, muscle providing padding against the bone. "I suppose I could see it . . . if I _really_ worked at it."

He pinched her side and she convulsed, giggling into his neck before slithering onto her other side. As they settled back down, he pressed his mouth to the soft spot where her throat met shoulder, and latched on with a gentle clamp of teeth and tongue. Elena's eyes fluttered closed while a whispery moan rose from her throat. She brought his hand up to her mouth and took the wet tip of his forefinger between her lips, nipping with blunt edges and earning a sharp thrust of his hips from beneath her.

Bolting upright, Elena detangled herself from him and slid away before things could escalate any further, dragging a heartfelt groan from him. "You never talk about your past," she said as she folded into the fetal position and twirled around to face him, sloshing soapy water around them.

"And you do?"

"Yes." He raised his eyebrows and made her face scrunch. "Sometimes I do. Don't I?" He shook his head slowly from side to side, watching her. "Well, you know all about me already, don't you? I mean, what's there to tell?" she asked with a dismissive shrug.

"Ditto," he retorted.

"_No_. It's not." Elena adopted her persistence expression as he cupped his large hands behind her knees and forced her to him, pulling her practically up into his lap as he met her halfway and spread her thighs around his hips. The soggy material of his boxers clung to him in places and floated outward in others beneath the surface of the bathwater. She unfolded her arms from her chest and lowered her hands down onto his shoulders, palms curving over the muscles there and fingers twisting in the tips of his dripping hair. "Damon," she implored.

With a soft sigh and a roll of his eyes, he let his head fall back against the hard rim of the tub and propped his arms along the border. "Most of my human life was insufferably dull. I won't be boring you with it." He paused, considering something, then lowered his eyelids and looked over at her through his sticky lashes. "I'm sure you've guessed it, but Stefan was the golden boy, being groomed to take over Father's estate, whereas I became the layabout with no aspirations. That left me with a lot of time for aimless debauchery . . . In between Father's lectures on responsibility and respectability and the poisons of indulgence, of course."

He left it at that, and Elena lifted an eyebrow, unsatisfied. But when she opened her mouth to protest, he laid a hand over it, quieting her. Then he hooked an arm around her hips and pulled her back to him. They sunk underwater together as he pressed his mouth to hers in a sloppy kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Take a look at this, duck."

Anna stirred from her unplanned nap at the sound of Sebastian's voice. Splayed headfirst over Astrid Forbes's diary, lying on her stomach across the shabby motel bed, she fought her eyes open and peered up through long lashes to find him crouching by her face. "Huh?"

Sebastian skimmed his knuckles lightly over her cheek, dusting fine strands of hair away. "I've found what you're looking for," he told her quietly.

That floated around her for a minute before finally sinking in. She sprung up onto her knees with wide eyes. "Show me."

"This here, see." He passed Jonathon Gilbert's leather-bound journal to her and traced his fingertip down to a specific passage of the Vivaldi script writings.

Anna read through the entire passage, lightning quick, before her eyes jumped up to find Sebastian's. Her lips fell apart. Her gaze went back down to the book, grasping it so tightly it threatened to tear. "'_After the sorceress's pyre had been reduced to nothing but ash and the dissipating smoke slithered in whirls up toward the lightening sky, the surviving members of the council gathered for one last time on that night to determine what should be done with the witch's satanic book of black magic. After the ensuing arguments, it was finally and unanimously decided that it was far too dangerous a risk to destroy it. Safekeeping of the spellbook was burdened on Giuseppe Salvatore, who swore on the soul of his late wife that he would guard the cursed book with his last breath. The Book of Satan was never spoken of again. I can only assume that Giuseppe has kept true to his word_.'"

"One step closer," Sebastian murmured encouragingly as Anna snapped the journal shut and tossed it aside.

"The Salvatores have had Emily's grimoire all along," she told him, a curse playing through her tone and lighting up her eyes as she looked up at him. "All this time!" she cried angrily.

Sebastian shook his head and calmly moved to lay his hands on her shoulders. "No. If the grimoire was in that house, one of the brothers would know about it."

"Well, where else would it be? A safety deposit box?" she drawled sardonically, narrowing her eyes.

"I don't know," he said, still unbothered by her stormy emotions. "That's what you and I will have to find out."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The icky sense of blood drying on her skin made Bonnie want to freak out. Not that she did, but she _really_ _wanted_ to. How'd she get covered in blood, anyway? And what was she doing lying in mud?

"No. Please, you can't!"

_Oh God, that's Elena, _Bonnie realized with a sharp leap of her heartbeat. Her friend sounded upset. No, she sounded _beyond_ upset. And with Elena, that couldn't mean anything but disaster. Suddenly Bonnie didn't really care what she was doing lying on the ground amid a patch of eastern white pines, or why her beige sweater dress was caked in blood that didn't seem to be hers. Something bad was happening, and she needed to find her friend.

The dark-skinned witch pushed to her feet and stumbled through the woods, the high heel of her ankle boots twisting her feet over rocks and sticks. Not even ten heartbeats later, the trees around her thinned and Bonnie broke out into the meadows, the deepest of the hill country in Mystic Falls. If she remembered correctly, the ruins of Fell's Church was just over the ridge.

Down the hill, Elena sunk to her knees in the wildflowers. There was such a shattered look on her face, Bonnie felt as if a shard of glass panged through her. Tears streaked Elena's cheeks, lashes sticky and hazel eyes shining. Her dark tresses glowed in the moonlight, and her pallor seemed almost silver. The satin evening gown that clung to her body looked like blood in the darkness.

The crying girl hung her head, pressing her hands into the wild grass as she grew silent. Dark syrupy fluid pooled out from her, and Bonnie had to float halfway down the hill before she could see that it was blood. And Elena was losing lots of it, but she didn't seem to notice, or she just didn't care. "Please," she said again in that broken whispery voice that made Bonnie want to sob. "You don't understand."

And then she lifted her face and her eyes went to the shadows in front of her. Silver light streamed, breaking the darkness apart, and left standing there not even ten feet away from where she was collapsed was the Salvatore brothers. They stood side by side, looking down at her with stoic expressions. Their faces were stony, their eyes gave nothing away, and Bonnie couldn't help but scowl. What was going on? She couldn't fathom why they would be looking at Elena like that, like she was nothing, like she didn't matter, when she was on her knees—crying, bleeding, probably dying.

Bonnie tore her confounded gaze away from the vampire brothers and returned to the girl in the grass. The pool of blood was stretching, soaking into soil, tainting the wildflowers that swayed around her. What happened to her? Bonnie wanted to know. Needed to know. _Who broke her?_

Damon and Stefan turned away, and Elena struggled to her feet. Or she tried, but she was too weak. With a pained grimace and a whimpered cry, she slithered limply back to the ground, just barely catching herself to keep her face out of the spilt blood. "Please," she called after them. "You can't just leave me here."

Bonnie's face scrunched with turmoil. Her eyes were tearing up, but she ignored the wetness that touched her cheek. Her heart was thundering in her chest. She moved to go to her friend but she couldn't. As if an invisible barrier stood between them, Bonnie was stopped after her first step. She couldn't get any closer. She couldn't help. She couldn't do _any_thing. And it was killing her. Anger lashed out, licking her like fire burning from the inside out.

A look of tired defeat came over Elena, and she let her head fall forward again. Wavy layers of dark hair spilled over her shoulders, shielding her face from the world. When she spoke, it was a soft voice—tired and sad and final. "I'm sorry."

Unexpectedly, it drew the brothers back. They came at her from either side, appearing out of the shadowy abyss of the surrounding woods at careful paces. Stefan stopped a hairsbreadth out of reach. He stopped and he stood, looking down on her. His expression was still empty, but there was a quiet pain gleaming in his emerald eyes now that gave Bonnie a second of hope. He let out a resigned sigh and slipped his hands into the hip-pockets of his loose jeans. And then he just watched while Damon moved to her side and crouched down, making Elena pick her head up and look out through sedated eyes.

"_Elena_." Bonnie tried to call out as the wariness inside of her grew urgent, only to find that she had no voice.

Damon took the girl's face in his hands and gently forced her to meet his cold stare. There was a layer of ice between them, covering him, keeping her out. Tears fell from her cheeks, making trails across his hands. Not that he paid any mind. The stain of blood increased, widening out until the whole meadow was blanketed with red, like fallen snow.

Elena's slender fingers furled in the grass, digging into the soft earth beneath her. There was knowledge in her gaze as Damon stroked the pad of his thumb across her cheek, making her shut her crying eyes with a look of broken acceptance that made Bonnie's stomach heave with sudden and knee-buckling nausea.

Stefan drew a hand from his pocket and scrubbed it wearily over his face, bowing his head with a pained look. His lips were pressed into a thin line of red that seemed stark against the moonlight of his complexion. While Bonnie was looking at him, a sickening _snap_ resounded through the meadow.

Air hissed out of the witch's body as she turned back to the couple in the center of the blood with slowly widening eyes. Elena crumpled to the ground like her strings had been cut and Damon just hovered over her, looking down with dead eyes and a mouth pressed tightly closed. Bonnie felt herself go cold.

"_Elena_ . . ." she called noiselessly, her lips falling apart on her best friend's name. "_Elena_?" She waited, staring with the two brothers. Meanwhile, the blood soaked into the earth, drowning the flowers, chasing away every other color. "_Elena_?" She kept going, and going, and going, not moving a muscle, just staring, just calling out with no sound so many times that _Elena_ didn't even seem like a real word anymore.

The dead girl in the red dress just laid there.

Then, at long last, a scream tore the world apart and Bonnie came awake feeling like she'd forgotten how to breathe. She knew she was gasping like a maniac, but she didn't realize that she was tearlessly sobbing, too, until her grandmother's downy voice filled her ears, filtering out the last remnants of the dream.

"Shh," Grams shushed, wrapping her arms around the girl and rocking her back and forth as Bonnie buried her head in the old woman's chest and clung to her like a lifeline. "Hush now, dear, it's all fine. Hush."

A heavy _thud_ registered through the haze, bringing focus enough to calm down. A few moments later, Bonnie pulled away from Grams, swiping at her dry face. She bent down over the sofa and picked up the hardback that had fallen off her lap. She'd been reading Kim Harrison's new _The Hollows_ book when she must have fallen asleep. She cradled the thick novel in her lap as she fell back against the ivory sofa cushions, sucking in a shuddery gasp of air.

"I don't understand," she whined under her breath. When she felt tears building in her eyes, Bonnie tugged a hand through her straightened hair, shoving it backward from her face and gnashing her teeth together. "I _hate_ this! Why did you have to give me this?"

Bianca folded her hands in her lap and sat back. "It's a gift you were born with, baby girl. Something you should be proud of."

"I don't want it," Bonnie spat viciously. But her anger wasn't directed at Grams. It was lashed outward at the universe, because she just didn't understand. What could it mean? The memory of Elena lying lifeless in that lake of blood was burned into her retinas and all she wanted to do was shut it out.

That wasn't really going to happen, was it? It could mean anything. It could be interpreted in any number of ways, none literal. She just couldn't accept this was what it appeared to be. Because one thing Bonnie knew better than she knew her own power was the assurance that Elena Gilbert would never let someone break her neck the way she'd allowed Damon in the dream. _Never_. Elena was a fighter.

Either way, though, it was just another notch to add to the bitterness stewing inside of Bonnie. She was still looking for a way to keep her friend away from the Salvatore brothers, but it seemed hopeless. Elena would never be safe so long as she was with them. Stefan was a good guy at heart, but he was still a danger to her. And Damon . . . well, she'd just watched that monster kill someone she loved more than her own life, and it wasn't out of character. Enough said.

If only it were that simple. She could be straightforward with her friend, but that was an absurd idea, because there was a snowball's chance in hell she'd listen. And any scheme Bonnie came up with always concluded in her head with Elena never speaking to her again. The loyalty between them ran deep. They were like sisters. But Bonnie didn't doubt who Elena would choose if the witch tried to hurt either brother. And if she used her power to keep Elena away from them, their friendship would be over. She forgave a lot of things, but anything Bonnie could think of was just too much for even Elena to take with a grain of salt. Then again, all of that was only if whatever she tried didn't work.

"Grams," she said softly. Resolve rippled through her, setting her shoulders and lifting her chin. "I need your help."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The orange glow of sunset streamed through the open windows in the sprawling kitchen. Elena was perched cross-legged on the island in the center of the room. The tap-tap-tapping of her fingertips against the emerald granite of the chill countertop was the only noise that kept the house from utter silence. This place would adopt an impenetrable sort of _quiet of the dead_ if it was allowed.

An icy and unopened can of Pepsi sat by one of her knees. Her halfway damp but slowly drying hair hung around her shoulders, getting the myrtle peasant top she wore soaked so that it stuck to her skin up along her back and across the neckline. There was a loose thread in the hem of her ivory linen pants that was irritating her. But there was something else, too. She was restless. Nightfall was coming and she could feel it sizzling under her skin, like a calling of the soul. She thought this would only happen on the full moon. Obviously, she was wrong. And she didn't know what to do with herself.

That's how Damon found her when he meandered into the room just as the timer on the microwave beeped. He headed straight for the built-in instant heater.

Even with the island counter between them and his attention carefully unfocused, Damon could feel her golden aura weighing down on him like a feathery but intoxicating pressure that rubbed teasingly across his flesh. Breathing it in, basking in the warm touch of her presence, he popped the microwave door open and wrapped his hand around the scalding mug of O negative.

When he rounded the island, he found her staring at the glass veranda door as she gnawed on her lower lip. "Fighting the urge to strip your clothes off and run through the trees?" he teased, sidling up to her and propping his hip against the countertop's edge.

She ignored him, tapping her fingers on her knees with the erratic jitteriness of a jonesing meth-head.

Damon curved his hand over the mug, shifting his grasp to dip his thumb into it to test the temp of the syrupy liquid. He reached out and laid his other hand heavily on top of hers, stilling her. "Elena."

She closed her eyes and let out a long breath, letting go of that pent up energy. Momentarily, anyway. But when she lifted her eyelids, her dark gaze drew to the mug he cradled. As faint whorls of steam rose from it, she cocked her head and blinked, brow furrowing and lips coming together then parting in a slight purse.

Interestedly, Damon watched her eyes follow as he moved to set the mug down on the countertop between them. He expected, oddly and curiously, for her to go for it. But she didn't. Instead, she reached out and wrapped her dainty fingers around his wrist then dragged his hand up to her mouth.

With singular awareness, she took his thumb between her teeth and bit down, even as her lips closed around him and her tongue ran a line up across the bloodied pad, languorously licking him clean. And just like that she'd brought him from utterly relaxed to tense and so hard he was aching with an urgent need that threatened to overwhelm his sanity. Her eyes rolled up to him and he saw the exact moment she came back to herself, because it was only then that she noticed what she'd done to him. The lust that burned through him sparked inside her, dilating her pupils and lighting up the hazel of her irises.

Moving slow and deliberate, Elena tipped her head back and let his thumb slide across her tongue and scrape lightly between her teeth before brushing past her lips. He could feel the banked fire burning through his eyes as she met his gaze with a steady calm that made him want to shake it out of her. How could she be so serene when she was driving him to the brink of his control?

At the coppery tang lingering on her tongue and the jolting heat of need riding through her system, the wolf stirred. He watched it happen, the dark glint of her eyes sparking to an unnatural golden before glazing with icy shades of silver and electric blue. The ebony of her pupils turned white as snow, glowing with the energy that was seeping into his skin, lighting him on fire.

"Well, hello there, little wolf." With a crooked smirk, Damon gripped her linen-clad thighs and gave a sharp jerk that had him positioned between her legs. She was half hanging off the countertop and would have gone toppling to the floor had the resistance of his body not been in her way.

Bright eyes and a feral twitch of her red lips, Elena's wolf clutched at his shoulders, bunching in the gray/blue material of his casual button-down and forcing him even closer until the muscled ridges of his torso rubbed against her stomach. She hovered unbearably close for a long moment. Then, with sparkling eyes, she licked her lips and cupped the back of his neck, twisting fingers tightly through short strands of his hair, and forced his mouth against hers in a painful crash.

As the heat scorched between them, stealing her breath and coiling through him with jagged edges, Elena's wolf bit down on his lower lip, drawing blood. Damon hissed into her mouth, fisting a hand in her damp hair and gripping at the small of her back in yearning while she laved at the cut and pulled him in deeper, breathy and eager and impatient.

Just as his canines sharpened with want, coursing an ache through him that ran so much deeper than simple lust, she broke the kiss—if that's what it could be called—by jerking her face to the side. Before he could retaliate, she forced his head back with a sudden tug and pressed her mouth hungrily into the hollow of his throat. His hands on her were conflicted, fighting between the urge to hold her fiercely or take back control. For the moment, he let her dominate him, let her make his eyes fall closed and the air in his lungs escape his lips with a soft exhale, let her melt his insides, let her work her mouth across his jugular until she found the spot his pulse point should be.

He snaked a hard arm around her waist, slipping it beneath her arms first, and held her pressed against him in an unbreakable embrace. There was something almost obscenely comforting about having her this way, knowing that she was here, practically a part of him, unable to get away . . . even if she wanted to.

At that moment, he was startled out of his disturbing thoughts at the sharp stab of pain that radiated through him. Her blunt teeth—which felt not-so blunt anymore—had latched onto his neck and bitten down, breaking skin, bleeding him. He moved his other hand up to palm the back of her head, stroking fingers idly through her sodden tendrils of hair. The pleasure/pain she rocketed through him had Damon almost dizzy.

Elena's wolf released him from her bite, caressing her lips evanescently over the wound and laving it clean with languid strokes of her tongue that threatened to buckle his knees with the feverish need it invoked within his soul—not that he actually had one of those. When she finally pulled back enough to look into his eyes, the intensity he found burning there was resolved and unshakable, and was nearly enough to make him wary.

"_Mine_," she declared obstinately, her hands twisting in his hair, her elbows digging into his shoulders, her legs wrapped like a vice around his waist.

Blinking through the haze of lust, Damon brought fingertips up to skim over the curve of his neck, feeling the pronounced damage. Her teeth shouldn't have been pointed enough to make the perfect crescent-shaped marks he felt.

_Marks_, he thought as his frown deepened. That was it. She'd marked him. What did that mean to a wolf? _Mine_, she'd insisted. That lilt to her mouth, the light in her eyes, the arch of her eyebrows were all daring him to contradict her.

Yeah, that wasn't about to happen. There was no reason to put up a fight, after all. This wasn't Elena. This was her wolf, and the animal was controlled by instinct. Let her claim him all she wanted. _It makes no difference to me_, he thought decidedly. It was sad that he didn't believe himself, though.

Suddenly there were vivid echoes of howling filling the house from far off in the woods. Moonrise was just barely beginning. It could just be stray wild ones. But he doubted it. And by the way the wolf wrapped around him piqued to alert, there really was no question.

Before he knew what was happening, she had untangled herself from him, planted a hand on his chest, and forced him back a few steps, giving her room to slide off the counter onto her feet. Intending to go investigate, he was sure, Elena's wolf started toward the veranda door. The pattern of lacerations over his pulse point hadn't started to heal—which was unusual but not worrying—and she wanted to just go gallivanting off. _Hah_, he thought even as he took her by the waist and spun her around, altering her trajectory.

"Nah, uh, uh—I don't think so," he crooned, then took her by the waist and lifted her up against him. Her thighs spread on instinct, arms falling over his shoulders as her legs locked around his hips. "I'm not done with _you_ yet. Not by a long shot."

The howling continued in a gravelly base of vocal callings. But by the time she flipped her hair out of her face and met his gaze, the eyes had reverted back to that rich hazel he was most familiar with.

The delicacy of her brow furrowed in confusion. "Damon?"

"You're back," he rumbled with a slight smile, brushing dark hair behind her ear as he leaned his head upward in a gentle press of their mouths. One arm locked around her backside kept her up against him as he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, still kissing her.

The mug of cooling blood sat forgotten on the island countertop.


	2. All Good Things

**Entry 2: All Good Things ...**

Damon roused from sleep to find Elena missing from his arms. He was on his back in bed, head resting against the Egyptian cotton of the bedding where his pillow would have been had it not been knocked to the floor earlier in the evening. The room was still pitch dark beyond the faint glow of the moon that streamed through the two oriel windows and a distinctly fluorescent shine coming from the bottom of the sleigh bed.

Down there was where he found Elena, sprawled on her stomach beneath one of the sheets. The tangled mass of her dark mane was corralled up into a sloppy French twist, a haphazard lift for nothing more than getting her tresses out of the way. Her calves were lifted and her ankles crossed as she swayed them lazily back and forth from the head of the bed to her backside. She was propped on her elbows with her chin in her hand in front of the white-shelled laptop that sat in front of her as she browsed.

"What are you doing?" he rumbled, running a hand through his ruffled hair as he moved to sit upright.

At the sound of his voice, she jumped. Her heart stuttered with a jolt of panic before it raced back into rhythm. She slapped the computer screen down and leapt up, twirling in midair so that she landed on her knees facing him. "Nothing," she insisted with wide eyes and a breathy voice. "Sorry to wake you."

"Girl, one of these days I'm going to have to teach you how to lie." He brought his knees up enough to hook his arms over them, and the covers rode down to his hips. "Hand it over."

Elena's eyes widened a bit more as her eyebrows raised. "Hand what over?"

He held out his hand and made an impatient gesture. "The PC. Give it here."

She glanced over her shoulder at the slim Mac. "Why?"

He cocked a brow at her. "Why do you think?" Then, as her eyes narrowed decidedly, he reached around her and snatched it up.

"Hey!" She made a grab for it and he stretched his arm backward over his head, out of her reach. "Damon, I'm serious. Give it back," she hissed while she tried to wrestle the laptop from him and he laughed at her efforts, easily holding her at bay.

"It's _my_ computer."

"And none of your business," she countered. "You can have it, just let me close out of what I was doing."

He pinned her with a look of intrigue and cocked his head. "What is it that you don't want me to see, Elena?"

The girl pulled back onto her haunches with a sharp huff, gathering the sheet protectively around her chest. _A little late for that_, he thought. But her lingering shreds of modesty were kind of endearing. "Never mind," she said sourly. "Forget about it. I just didn't want to have to put up with your mockery."

"Me, mock you?" he questioned, feigning an innocent look of affront.

Elena rolled her eyes and turned away. "Whatever," she groused.

Damon watched her for a moment, feeling a peculiar sense of bafflement, before he shrugged it off and turned his attention to the laptop. Once he kicked it out of hibernation, the website she'd been browsing came back up right where she'd left it, and suddenly he understood what was bugging her. See, she was _embarrassed_.

"Some light midnight reading on the wonders of the female orgasm?" he teased.

"_Lemme alone_," she grumbled, falling onto her side of the bed and giving him her back. She propped her hands beneath the pillow and her cheek, then curled her legs into her primary sleeping position, like that would make him disappear.

Damon couldn't help but let out a small laugh as he set the computer aside and moved to blanket her with his body, doming one arm over her with his fist pressed to the mattress. "Oh, come on, you don't have to pout."

Incensed, she cut a glare over her shoulder at him and landed a sharp elbow to his solar plexus. "I am _not_ pouting." Then, while he doubled over, she sat up and shoved him back to his side of the bed. "I'm just not in the mood to banter with you. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going back to sleep."

Freshly recovered from her well-placed jab, his arms shot out and captured her before she could settle back down in her spot. He rolled them until she was pinned beneath the length his body and he was propped on his forearms.

"I'm not going to make fun of you, Elena. There's no need to get so defensive." He drew a stray curl of her hair between his fingers and played with it as he stared down at her, while she lay stiff as a board under him, frowning up. "I think I've been a bad influence. You go straight for gratuitous violence nowadays."

"I'd hardly call it gratuitous."

Damon sighed, letting his eyes roll upward off of her unhappy face. "Be that as it may, there's no reason to be mortified. I'm just wondering why you were secretly surfing Wikipedia in the dead of night."

Elena's shoulders squared. "There was just something I wanted to know."

"About orgasms?" he countered with an arch of his brow.

"Yes," she snapped. "Contrary to what may be your opinion of me, I'm not exactly vastly experienced with the whole sex thing. Yeah, I've danced the basic routine a few times here and there, and most of it is all just common sense and discovery. But in a lot of ways, I know nothing about this stuff."

"Oh, trust me. I'd never mistaken you for _vastly experienced_." He chuckled, only to let it die abruptly in his throat at the dangerous narrowing of her eyes. "Simmer down. That wasn't an insult," he assured. And it wasn't. What she lacked in finesse and honed skill, she moreover made up for with passion and personality. Elena possessed such an unbearable combination of naivety and confidence, warring eagerness and intense sensuality, an unschooled ability to take herself and anyone in her radius by storm. But he was getting off point. "Why wouldn't you just ask if you had a question?"

"Oh, right," she scoffed. "Why wouldn't I want to just beg for your taunting?"

Damon's brow furrowed. "I'd have given you an answer."

"For a price," she whispered as she eyed him evenly, her lips pursing the slightest bit.

"Well," he sighed, "I'm not taunting you now, am I?"

Elena lifted one fine eyebrow at him. "This very moment? No."

"So then tell me now. What got that curiosity of yours whirring?" he wondered, genuinely curious himself. For the last two weeks, there'd been a fairly decent amount of indecency unfolding between them. He knew he'd introduced her to quite a few new experiences, though she made a point to not make a big deal out of anything, trying to remain unobvious about her hesitancies, and with the uninhibited desires of the wolf stirring inside of her that wasn't exactly difficult. But she'd never asked, never appeared confused, never fumbled. She'd let the heat of the moment carry her.

And now, he was thinking back on the evening's session before he'd fallen asleep and trying to recall a particular moment that might have upset her, or taken her by surprise, some sign that she didn't understand something he'd done to her. And he came up with a great big _nothing_. Tonight was no different from any other night. Sure, they'd gotten a little out of hand in the frenzy of the moment, but he'd have known if he'd hurt her or something. Wouldn't he have?

"I'm fine." She said it on a quiet sigh, while she drew a hand through his tousled hair to draw him out of his thoughts.

He let his eyes fall closed at her soft ministrations. "Mm, what was that?"

"I read the worry and doubt on your face," she said absently. "And I'm telling you that it's not about that."

Damon opened his eyes as her hand fell away from him, landing on the pillow above her head. His brow furrowed when he looked into her eyes. "Then what is it about, Elena?"

"I just . . ." She trailed off, gave a heavy sigh, and then looked away with a soft shrug of her shoulders. "When I climaxed earlier, it was . . . different."

"Mm Hm."

"And I didn't know why until I got online and found out." She shrugged.

Letting go of that insidious sliver of worry that had plagued him, Damon settled down lower on his arms until their chests were pressed together. She was taking on some of his weight as he laid half on her and half on the bed beside her. Not that she minded. He'd come to realize just how calming it was for her—or more likely her wolf—to have the weight of his body exist as a solid presence connected to her. And it wasn't like he had to worry about crushing her, as he might with any other human. The frailty that had once infuriated him about her was no longer there. Or if it was, it was buried so deep beneath this new durability that he couldn't find it even if he tried.

"Hm, pray tell then, princess. What is it you found out?"

Elena sighed, relaxing into the mattress as he played with a stray curl of her hair. "Last time was probably the roughest you've ever been," she murmured.

"Should I apologize?" he drawled lazily, cocking a dark eyebrow and making the corners of her mouth upturn.

"No, I definitely asked for it. But apparently what made it so much more intense than all the times before was that you were going so deep that you were bumping my cervix," she told him, like she was really telling him something. "And that was what caused the uterine orgasm instead of the typical clitoral orgasm, or supposedly anyway, which makes sense, because it felt like I'd been hit with this tidal wave of uncontrollable emotion. It sure is funny how just a bit of knowledge can make something make _so much_ sense."

"Mm Hm."

"I really had no idea how little understanding I had of my own sexuality. Not that I ever gave it much thought. But I'm thinking now that I should have. I mean, it's this gigantic part of life. People really take for granted the value of sensation. We're always so goal-orientated, so focused on what we want and how to get it that we tend to forgo maximizing _all_ of our experiences."

"Mm Hm."

"The person that takes to heart the saying 'the journey is just as important as the destination' is probably the only person to live a fulfilling life." She finally paused to give herself time to breathe, though her rant carried a lazy pace, and noticed him staring at her strangely. She couldn't help but add, "And I mean that in the true sense of the concept. You _think_ you live like that because you live only for the enjoyment of the moment and nothing else, but living on a journey with no destination negates the whole point."

"Mm Hm."

"And you haven't listened to a word I've said."

He couldn't help but smile at her. "I heard you," he murmured, dipping down to burrow his face in her neck and take in a deep inhale of her honeysuckle-soaked scent. _So young, so innocent_, he thought amusedly, _so fascinated with the intricacies of entangling bodies._ He knew that light in her eyes, and it pleased something primitive inside of him to see the empowering effect that came for her from the learning, the blooming understanding of specifics. She liked knowing her body and the cause and effect of sensation. She wanted to be closely in touch with herself, and with him, and there was something extremely satisfying about that for Damon. _Funnily enough_, he thought.

"Just forget it." She sighed against the warmed flesh of his shoulder, lips playing over corded muscle and tendon.

Scooting down until their bodies were nearly perfectly aligned, Damon turned his face into her upswept hair and let his mouth linger over the delicate shell of her ear. "Did you know . . ." he began in a low whispery voice, ". . . that a woman reaches orgasm incredibly easy when she's ovulating?"

And just like that, Elena froze beneath him. "No, I did not know that." Her fingernails bit into the sides of his sternum. "And just what exactly do you mean by it?" she wanted to know.

Damon grinned into her cool skin as he nuzzled her cheek. He really loved screwing with her. Just _loved_ it. Not that there wasn't a small part of him that was simply trying to open up in return for the almost childlike excitement she'd tried to share with him, the only way he knew how. "Just stating a fact is all."

His hand began wandering down her thigh before she smacked it away with a resounding slap, and then tried to shove him off of her. Luckily, he'd known how she'd react and had turned to deadweight just before she'd tried.

"Get off," she demanded.

"No." His soft chuckling sent vibrations reverberating through them both.

Elena weaseled up onto her elbows then tried to pry him away with her knee. "If you think I'm letting you touch me after just implying that I'm ovulating, you're out of your mind."

She'd just about gotten away when he wrapped his hand around her deceptively dainty wrist, rolled onto his back, and tugged her on top of him where he could take her hips in a firm grasp and keep her where he wanted her. "Don't be so paranoid," he chided. "It's a common known fact that vampires can't procreate." Then he raised his brow at her and smirked. "Though, we sure do love to try."

Elena went still, her nearly insubstantial weight settling resignedly on his torso as she pinned him with a steely gaze. "It was also a common known fact that the world was flat not so long ago."

"I'm sorry I freaked you out," he said in an easy tone, flashing a quick smile up at her as his hands splayed across the curve of her waist, right at the inward dip of her body's hourglass structure. "I was only teasing."

Elena folded her arms, unimpressed.

"Honestly," he insisted. "It's good to see you like this. You know, one of the more inspiring aspects of this turn of the century was and is the gradual incline of sexual liberation. For a long while there, it was pretty depressing."

She lifted her brow, softening ever so slightly. "Pardon me?"

He settled in on his back for a thorough discussion, still keeping her in his impenetrable grips. "Well, I lived in a time before Freud's ridiculous 'change-over' theory created deep-seated inadequacy issues in women, which inevitably led to that nightmarish climb in repressive frigidity. I swear, the worst of the plateaus were dark days of mine," he exclaimed, only partly joking.

But Elena was frowning down at him with the cutest perplexed look. "The 'what' now?" she asked.

"The 'change-over' theory," he reiterated. Damon's hands dropped to her hips and gave a soft squeeze as he chuckled. "At the last turn of the century, that highly renowned quack made it popular belief that a sexually mature female shouldn't need any clitoral stimulation in order to be sexually satisfied."

"He did?"

"Yes," he practically purred, shutting his eyes and pressing his head back into the mattress as she bent down and rested herself completely on top of him, lacing her fingers and splaying her palms over the smooth flesh of his collarbone area.

"That makes no sense," she whispered sleepily. Elena turned her head and laid the side of her face against the joint of his shoulder before she let her eyes flutter closed. "That bundle of nerves is the primary source for all orgasms. I thought that the only stimulation that could bring a girl to climax without the . . . well, with just . . . um, intercourse . . . was the G-spot, and that won't happen unless you know what you're doing."

"Lucky I know what I'm doing then, huh?" he quipped, skimming his hands up and down her back, making her tingle, making her hum.

"Why would anyone have ever believed it?"

Damon lifted his head up off the mattress to briefly press his lips to the crown of her head. "Little girl knows her anatomy," he murmured. "Sadly, back then the everyman—or woman, as the case may be—had no freaking clue about sexual stimulation. It was all instinct for the majority, slot A to slot B mentality, and if a revered professional like Sigmund Freud decided something, the people listened."

"Sounds like the dude did major damage to your sexually deviant ways," she teased, grinning.

Damon let out a soft laugh, and then rolled them until she was once again trapped between him and the mattress. "Oh, no, don't worry. My personal carnal delights didn't suffer. But the general mentality that resulted proved to be somewhat of a nuisance. I'm glad it's finally ebbed."

"I thought the sexual revolution of the sixties took care of that?"

Damon grinned up at her, though she was apparently not paying attention, and slid downward, forcing her thighs apart as he settled comfortably between them. "That was only a fad," he murmured. "And like all fads, it faded."

It wasn't until the hard press of his stomach rubbed against the tiny curls of her honey-hued nether hair that he cajoled Elena into opening her eyes and picking her head up enough to glance down at him. "No," she said softly, halfheartedly, while her hands found themselves resting over the ligature in the taut set of his shoulders. "I'm too tired."

At that, Damon slid himself even further down the bed until he was propped up on his elbows, lying on his stomach with his head between her caramel thighs. He lifted one of her knees to hook over his shoulder, making her catch her lower lip between her teeth as their eyes locked. Her heel dragged enticingly across the small of his back and he offered her a promisingly dark lilt of his lips that had her insides melting and her heart picking up the pace all at once.

"Allow me to enlighten you," he drawled, letting the hot breath of his words hit the most sensitive spot of her entire body and make her arch as tense as a bow.

"_Damon_." She tried. She really did try. But it was useless. She was utterly defenseless against him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, the bedside lamp in one of the second floor guest suites was switched on, and Grace rolled tiredly out of bed. Barefoot, she slipped on a floor-length satin robe and fastened it over the short negligee she wore as she made her way across the room to the vanity bureau. Behind her, stretched lazily across the rumpled bed was Nicholas with his back propped against the padded headboard. He had his ankles crossed and his fingers laced as they rested over his bare abdomen.

The French double doors to their section of the balcony were propped open, letting in the April night breeze and the grating cries of the cicadas. The absence of mosquitoes and the roiling of the darker clouds in the inky sky outside indicated the coming of another rainstorm. And this one was going to be impressive, Grace knew. She could feel the energy for it gathering in the air.

"I swear," Nico cursed beneath his breath. "They're like the energizer freaking bunnies." His eyes went skyward with a derisive snort. "Even with all that preternatural stamina, there comes a point where enough is just enough."

Grace's lips twitched as she lowered herself onto the vanity's stool and picked up her hairbrush. "It's still new for them, Nico. You can't expect them to have their full of each other after only two weeks, can you?"

"Please," he scoffed. "He's had the little wolf—"

"Two weeks," she cut in certainly, locking gazes with him through the mirror's reflection. "They've been dancing around each other for a long while, sure. But it has only been two weeks since they've actually cemented it."

Nicholas's fair brow furrowed at her as he harrumphed. "I could have sworn—"

"And you'd have been wrong," she chirped in singsong, undoing her auburn locks from the bun she'd had them corralled up into and then running the soft-bristled brush over them. With a knowing little grin and sparkling marble green eyes, she demanded his sole attention. "You should know full well what this is all about . . ."

Comprehension glinted in his obsidian eyes and the corners of his mouth quirked up. "_Ah_ . . ." He sighed appreciatively. "The honeymoon phase—I remember it so fondly."

"I'll bet you do," she drawled under her breath, knowing he'd hear her perfectly.

"But still." Nicholas's look of daydreaming came to an abrupt halt and the pouting frown was back. "When can we get out of here?"

"Soon enough," she said, and then turned her focus to her own reflection while she twined her shoulder-length hair into a loose French braid, allowing stray wisps to frame her face.

"Grace." It was half a warning, half a whine.

"I thought you were enjoying catching up with Damon?" she countered, still avoiding his attentive stare. "Besides, weren't you still trying to come up with the perfect way to even the score between you two? Some way that does _not_ involve bedding Elena, mind you."

Nicholas shrugged and looked away, focusing pointedly out toward the night sky while a touch of embarrassment etched across his handsome face. "I am. Or I was. I want to. It's just . . . Oh, I don't know. I can't think of anything."

"Sure you can. You're just not trying, Nico."

He whirled back to her with a defensive scrunch to his expression. "Maybe it's just not much fun anymore, all right? Jeez, get off my back, woman."

"So, forget about payback then. Enjoy having your friend around again. Once we leave, you have no idea when you'll see him again."

Nicholas's expression sobered with a curious lilt. "What's that supposed to mean? Wouldn't _you_ know, love?"

Grace swiveled around to face him. "You're the one that is always dissing my foresight."

"Oh, come now. You know I don't mean that. I have complete faith in you."

"Yes. When it suits you," she huffed.

"_Grace_," he warned impatiently.

She waved a dismissive hand at him and rolled her eyes. "Whatever. My point is that the future isn't set in stone. Not always, that is. So, just enjoy the vacation, catch up on old times, have some new ones, whatever you wish—_just stop bitching_."

"I'm not _bitching_," he snapped, crossing his arms.

"You most certainly are."

"I'm not," he told her dangerously. To which she rolled her eyes again and turned her back on him. As the redhead rubbed lotion over her hands and moisturized her lips, Nicholas sunk back into the bed and watched her with a quietly petulant scowl. "There's nothing to do in this tiny godforsaken town," he groused at a volume she wouldn't be able to hear.

"Don't think I don't know you're over there grumbling at me."

Nicholas harrumphed again. "You know, love, you've sure been singing a different tune as of late. I remember a time not too long ago when you were trying to drag me from this place like the devil was at your heels."

Grace shrugged. "I changed my mind."

"Because of the little wolf," he complained. "And I don't see why. It's just a lupine. They're not _that_ rare. And what interest do you have in it anyways? You've never mentioned wanting to take a familiar before."

"No, no." She shook her head, rising and returning to bed. "It's not like that. I don't want to bind her to me. Even if I did want that, she'd never willingly accept. And you know darn well that forcing the familiar's bond is forbidden. That'd be . . . well, that'd be about as bad as what the dark conjurors do."

Nicholas shot her an incredulous look. "That's nowhere near the same, love. You're not a dark witch. Those beings aren't even truly human." He snaked his arm around her waist and drew her slowly to him until she curled into his side, pillowing her head against his chest. "Those soul-stealers are nothing but a disease. No different than rotting corpses in their graves, only they cause a hell of a lot more trouble."

"And I'd be no better than one if I ever tried to forcibly take a familiar, Nico. It's the worst sort of slavery if you don't choose it freely." She shifted slightly until she could look up into his eyes with a hard expression. "And how you've used your compulsion lately isn't any less wrong."

Nicholas's eyes shut in exasperation. "When am I going to be forgiven for that?"

"I'll let you know," she drawled. "And as for Elena—"

"I still don't understand. If it's not taking the little wolf as a familiar that you're thinking of, then why on earth are we stuck here?"

Grace drew her hand lazily across the planes of his torso, closing her eyes and basking in the usual feel of frissons sparking across her being at the contact. "There's just something there," she whispered. "The second I saw her in person, I knew I couldn't leave until I found out what the universe was trying to tell me about her."

Nicholas let out a put-upon sigh as he played with her braid. "Well, let me know when you do figure it out, love." He paused, listening to the heady sounds floating in from the floor above them for a moment before a mischievous smirk lit up his mouth. With a soft tug to the tip of her braid, he drew her eyes up to him and waggled his brow. "Want to outdo them?" he suggested with a deep purr that rippled through her like a deep tissue massage. "Give them a taste of their own medicine, so to speak?"

Grace's smile was both indulgent and amused. But she shook her head. "No, Nico. I have more class than that." And before he could rebuke, she slipped from his grasp and moved to the stereo that sat in the bookcase across the room. She switched it on and turned the volume up full blast until his sensitive ears literally throbbed. She then spun on her heels and sent him an insidious little grin full of self-satisfaction, eyes sparkling like the witch she was. "I've a better idea, anyway."

Nicholas's smirk turned downright sadistic as he swung to his feet and crossed to her, scooping her up in his arms and making her squeal with surprised delight. "Nasty little witch," he teased.

And from then on out, it was a very long night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elena woke in bed to the eerie feel of a feather's tip streaking across the bare exposure of her backside. Up high across her shoulder blades, down along the dip of her spine into the small of her back, and up again over the beginning rise of her rear. She felt oddly coated with something, and her hair was tied up in a sloppy pile at the top of her head, one which she didn't remember doing. It was a strange awakening to say the least.

Sprawled flat facedown in the center of Damon's pillow-top mattress with the wine-colored sheets curiously absent, Elena pulled her arms out from under the pillows and propped up on her elbows, squinting and blinking the stickiness from her eyes. She was still naked, other than for the boyshorts she'd slipped on before she fell asleep around predawn. Now the room was bright with warm sunlight.

"Don't move," Damon murmured distractedly. "You'll muck it up."

"Excuse me?" With a furrowed brow, Elena shifted to look over her shoulder, though she did as he asked and didn't try to get up. She found him propped on his side, level with her waist while his calves stuck out off the end of the bed. His attention was solely focused on her back as he etched a fine paintbrush across her flesh. A platter of varying acrylics was resting by her hip on the other side. All she could manage to see at this angle was an abstract mural of vivid shades. "Damon, what the hell are you doing?"

"Creating a masterpiece," he quipped, then glanced up at her and pressed a finger to his lips. "Now—_shh_."

As the faint tickle of the brushstroke painted in a swirling pattern over the curve of her hip, Elena lowered herself back down to the bed, propping a scrunched pillow beneath her chest and setting her chin on her forearm with a soft sigh. "I didn't know you were an artist."

"Why would you?" he retorted in a bored manner, corralling the brush, alternating between light and deep strokes.

She turned her cheek and rested her head on her arm to be able to look down over her shoulder to watch him. "When's the last time you picked up a brush?"

"New York. Spring of seventy-two, I think," he murmured, resting his head on his free hand.

"Why so long?"

"I was in the mood. And haven't been since," he explained with a brief shrug. "It was while I was opening my first art gallery, actually. Which was a _huge_ success, by the way," he added, then flashed her one quick smirk before going back to his work.

That raised Elena's eyebrows. "You own an art gallery in New York?"

"Manhattan." He nodded, concentrating on the dip of her spine at the small of her back, right along the elastic hemline of her black panties. "The sibling in Montreal is stronger, revenue wise, though."

"Wow, that's—" she made a face "—strange." She paused, growing thoughtful. "I've never pictured you that way."

"What way?"

"You know." She moved one shoulder into a shrug but stopped halfway through at his sharp glance. "As a businessman, or whatever," she said. "Or as a painter, come to think of it. It's just all very strange."

Damon's face contorted theatrically. "God, no, don't you dare say things like that. It's not like I do nine to five or lock myself up in a studio to play van Gogh."

"But I bet you've been to college at least once or twice over the years," she gibed.

He looked up at her with a crooked grin that said he was thinking dirty things about her. "Only for the sorority experience, I promise."

Elena let out a soft laugh and fought the urge to writhe when his brush tickled a sensitive spot high on her side. "And here I was thinking you've spent the last hundred-plus years doing nothing but boozing, screwing, and killing while you were waiting around for that comet . . ." She smirked. "But I suppose that lifestyle would get boring to even Damon Salvatore after a while of nothing but, huh?"

Damon adopted a mockingly hurt expression, adding in a pinch of indignant irritation. "You really believed I was so one-dimensional? All this time you've known me and you haven't known me at all. I'm disappointed," he quipped.

"No," she said seriously, slowly sobering him with her intent gaze. "I knew there was much more of what I didn't know about you than there was of what I did. Past and present tense apply. I guess I just never gave all that kind of stuff much thought. I figured you just use your compulsion to get by."

"I do. But a guy's got to have hobbies," he drawled. "Even us vampires."

"I suppose so," she said quietly, calculatedly, drawing his attention.

Damon let out a put-upon sigh at the way she was looking at him and turned back to his artwork. "Once every while I'll get an itch for business and find a new venture to put a stake in. I take the idea, form it, set it up, and then I find someone capable to make it grow before I move on. After I leave town, there's no direct contact between me and the business world. That's what go-betweens are good for, accountants and business managers. They handle all the boring ends of keeping up the Salvatore estate."

Elena shook her head at him and pressed her smiling lips into the pillow. "You do realize that you sound like a boy playing at house, don't you? Only it's the corporate world."

Damon made a wry face. "You say that like it's bad or something. I, my dear girl, live the dream life."

_I'm not even going to touch that one_, she thought, letting out a sharp burst of laughter as she buried her face deeper in the pillow and rode it out while he shifted, moving till he was half on his stomach with one arm propped across her backside for support. Elena was so relaxed, she felt as useless as melted butter. "Just what kind of businesses have you started?" she wondered softly.

"Well, there are the art galleries, a gentleman's joint in Atlanta, an underground neo nightclub in Boston, water sports rental shop in Great Guana Cay—"

"Great _what_ Cay?" she asked.

"The Bahamas," he said shortly. "There's also the winery and organic foods supplier in Eureka, California. A cantina in Tijuana, too." He paused and his lips quirked up in one corner like he had a secret she'd beg him for. "Not to mention the little shop in Prague that's nothing appropriate for your innocent little ears."

The brush of his knuckles over her shoulder made Elena shiver once. She let her eyes fall closed and sighed at the feel of the frissons that rippled through her. The partial weight of him pressing her into the bed as he drew patterns on her skin was beyond soothing. It was just so . . . placid. It could be called _normal_ even. A feeling of contentment had settled over her lately. And she knew for sure that she could get used to this. No flyby traumas, no draining of blood or gouging claws, monster werewolves and angry vampires. No one's life was in danger. There was no ticking time bomb. There was only Elena and Damon, in bed on a quiet morning, talking without threats, manipulations, or power plays.

Yes, she could most definitely get used to this.

Then again, there in the back of her mind was the awareness of Stefan. He'd been gone for two weeks straight, hiding in Baton Rouge. And he still wouldn't answer her calls. Sure, he'd sent texts. They all told her not to worry, that Skyler was having problems, and that he would be back when he could be. But she didn't believe his assurances. Something was very wrong. She could feel it. And, though she could distract herself, she couldn't just let it go.

But every time she brought it up, Damon brushed her off. When she'd point out how weird it was that Stefan wasn't picking up her calls, he'd suggest that maybe it was because Stefan didn't want to talk to her—and in that "well, duh" tone of voice, no less. And yes, that was a plausible explanation. The three of them were in a very confusing place at the moment. She wouldn't blame him if Stefan just needed to walk away.

But she just did _not_ believe it. Before he'd left, he'd made it clear that he wasn't willing to lose her. Even if he'd changed his mind—which made her a little sick to her stomach to even think of, despite how good things had been between her and Damon since he'd left—he wouldn't have just run off under false pretenses. He wouldn't have lied. Stefan was too damn decent to do anything but be honest with her if he were going to leave her behind.

She needed to know what was going on. But Damon had made it clear that he wasn't going to get involved. And don't think she'd forgotten about her promise to help Damon rescue Katherine from the tomb, because she hadn't. It was just that in two weeks, he hadn't brought it up. Not once. And she wasn't about to force the issue, not while things were so good between them. She was just enjoying the time.

She did have to wonder, though, if the reason he hadn't mentioned it was because he was indeed going behind her back looking for Emily Bennett's grimoire. If that were the case . . . well, she didn't know what she'd do, but she'd do something, and he could be damn sure that he wouldn't like it. This truce they'd fallen into was important to her. If he was lying, she'd _not_ be happy. Mildly put, that is. After all the crap she'd dealt with from sister wolf for her bargain, he'd better be holding up his end. Though, come to think of it, the wolf had been oddly quiet all week, ever since . . . ever since last Saturday night.

At that moment, Damon's husky voice jerked her out of her maze of a thought vault. "Don't get lost on me, princess."

"_Hm_," Elena moaned absentmindedly, opening her eyes and glancing down to find him staring, the paintbrush lying still. She ran her eyes over the drying paint across her back and lifted a dark eyebrow. "This will come off, right?"

"With a little scrubbing," he promised cheekily.

"That better be an offer," she warned.

"Is that a proposition, Miss Gilbert?"

"More of a demand," she purred with a sunshine smile and a warning look in her hazel eyes as they sparkled golden with flecks of emerald under the golden light.

Damon opened his mouth for a comeback a split-second before a shrill ringing chimed through his bedroom.

"That's mine," she said, and a second later her blinking phone was being waved in front of her face. The screen said it was Aunt Jenna. She leaned up onto an elbow to take it from him, pressing her breasts into the folded pillow as her spine arched. "Speak."

"Where are you?" Jenna asked, sounding kind of snappish. It made Elena's face pull taut, taken aback. "We were supposed to be at the salon twenty minutes ago. We only have five hours until you have to be presented at the gala."

And just like that, reality reared up and bit her on the ass. The Founder's Day Gala was this evening, and Elena was being presented as one of the founding daughters of Mystic Falls, alongside Caroline and a few other girls from school. She wasn't dreading it, per se, but she wasn't exactly _excited_ either.

"Great," she drawled dryly, then turned to look over her shoulder at Damon. He'd lowered himself down onto his chest, resting one hand and his chin on the curve of her backside. The brush was set aside on the platter. His crystalline eyes were pinned on her, his face expressionless. "How's my hair?"

His only response was to give her an extremely proud, if not a bit lascivious, smirk.

"Yep, that's what I thought." She brought the mouthpiece of the phone back to her. "Give me thirty," she told Aunt Jenna, then snapped the cell shut.

But when she tried to move his hands kept her down. "You're not going anywhere until you dry."

Elena arched an eyebrow, pursing her lips at him. "Oh, yes, I am." And then she used a bit of that werewolf strength to dislodge him as she rolled onto her back, pointedly smearing paint across the bedspread. Then she sprung up, hopping off and padding toward the armoire across the room.

After a brief glance of disdain at the body-length stain she'd left on his sheets, Damon rolled, leaned against the ironwork of the headboard, and crossed his ankles. He watched in silence as she dug into his wardrobe until she pulled out a sky-blue button-down. "You're going in that?"

She shrugged it on and twirled while her fingers deftly ran upward, fastening it. "Well, I'm not about to ruin _my_ shirt, now am I?" Grinning at him, she sauntered across the room and leaned her pelvis against the foot of the bed. "By the way, where'd my boots go?"

"You left them in the kitchen."

Comprehension flickered over her face as she remembered. "Correction: _you_ left them in the kitchen. And speaking of, that broken china still needs to be cleaned up. Someone's going to stumble in there and cut up their feet."

"Yes, definitely. I'll get right on that," he drawled, waving a sloppy salute at her.

Elena only rolled her eyes and let it drop. She was on her knees, reaching under the bed for her discarded skirt, when his hand finally wrapped around her other wrist and pulled her upright between his knees as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed in his dark boxer shorts.

"Don't be absurd," he said, dusting his knuckles through unruly wisps of her hair. "You've got time for a shower first."

Elena shook her head and drew away before he had the chance to distract her. "I really don't." She came to her feet and shimmied into her pleated skirt, tucking the excess of the button-down in. Then she turned to go, only to be caught at the hand by him again. She stretched her arm out loosely, trying to slip from his grasp, but he wouldn't let her go. "Damon."

He raised his brow and gave her an innocent quirk of his mouth. "Yes, Elena?"

Biting her lip against an almost giddy smile as they stared at each other, Elena dragged her feet while he slowly, lazily, stubbornly reeled her in an inch at a time. "I have to go," she whined.

He only tilted his face up to her and latched an arm around her waist, holding her against him from his place at the edge of the bed. In this position, she had the higher ground. Hell, she towered over him, hands falling lightly to his bare shoulders, and still it didn't seem to make a bit of difference. She was as malleable as putty under that bright and quiet gaze of his.

"Blow it off," he mumbled, arching up at an evanescent pace until his mouth was whispering across hers. His fingers tangled in her hair as he palmed the back of her head, keeping her from leaning out of his kiss.

"Can't . . ."

"Can."

A soft mewling sound escaped her as he wrapped his hand around one of hers, lifted it from his shoulder, and pulled it down to slip it beneath the waistband of his boxers. Frissons of liquid warmth rippled through her, making her fingertips tingle with heated electricity as their clasped hands brushed his growing erection. Using the hand in her hair, Damon drew her with him as he started lowering himself down to the bed.

They were halfway in between when she tugged her hand out of his hold, pressed it to his chest, and used that to lever herself back onto her feet. "Jenna's waiting for me," she explained resolutely, backing away from him and rubbing a hand across her chest, flustered. "So, you'll just have to wait until I'm done with the beauty parlor." Then she turned on her way to his bedroom door. "I'll let you know when I'm home, and you can come wash your masterpiece off of me before I have to slip into a very expensive evening gown."

Propped up on his elbows, strewn sideways across the sleigh bed, Damon sent her an arched look, still irritated that she hadn't given into him. "Oh, I can, can I?"

"You _will_," she ordered—half playful, half warning, all serious.

Looking uninterested, Damon gave her a dismissive shrug. "We'll see."

Elena got less than a foot over the threshold of his bedroom before she was hesitating, twisting crookedly on her feet and gripping the doorframe as she glanced back at him with a deeply furrowing brow.

The sudden sober look in her eyes piqued his attention.

"You are going to be with me for this, aren't you?" she asked slowly, tilting her head at him. "I mean, you're not going to flake out and leave me stranded by myself in the spotlight at the top of the stairs or anything." She paused just long enough to wet her lips and swallow the saliva suddenly pooling in her mouth. "I know this whole scenario is kind of ridiculous, but I already agreed to it. If I need to find another escort, than tell me now, before it's too late."

Damon rose upright on the edge of the bed, lifting his dark eyebrows at her. "You think I would abandon you in your time of need?" he asked, feigning hurt. "That would be humiliating." And then his face brightened with a smile that was all sarcastic saccharine, some incredible mimic of a good ol' boy grin. "I'd never _dream_ of doing that to you, princess."

Elena's face scrunched incredulously. She stood there for a long moment, debating with herself. Then, at last, with a roll of her eyes and a derisive snort, she accepted it as all she was going to get, and turned on her heels to make her way out of the boarding house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I can't believe you did that!" Grace scolded.

By the time Nicholas turned back to defend himself, she'd already stomped herself halfway down the block. He hastily followed after her, weaving through the flowing sea of pedestrians that were clogging up the sidewalk. When he made it to her side, he draped an arm around her neck. "Didn't you see the way he was leering at you?" he asked archly, his sandy-blonde brow still furrowed with agitation.

Grace crossed her arms over her chest as they walked, creating cleavage that strained against the soft fabric of her T-shirt. The dark denim jacket she wore over her top and broom skirt protected her from the strong winds that were still gearing up from last night. It was bound to be one heck of a storm when it finally arrived.

"Oh, like you don't take the time to ogle every knockout that passes by."

Nicholas smirked down at her. "Quite the high opinion of yourself, haven't you, lovely?"

"No," she huffed. Then she lifted her chin with a small smile. "Just very self-aware is all."

"Hey." With piqued interest, Nicholas tugged on the arm around her shoulders and steered his mate down the curb, across the street, and up onto the opposite sidewalk, nodding toward the bar and grill that was waiting for them there. "Let's check it out."

Grace let out a put-upon sigh. "We came out to shop, Nico. Not get plastered."

"There's not enough money in the world to get you _plastered_, you feathery little heavyweight."

Grace grinned proudly. "Comes from growing up in Papa's pub," she said, letting a faintly wistful look flicker over her features. "It's sad that that's probably one of my proudest achievements, being able to out-drink my vampire boyfriend."

"Very sad," he agreed, smirking as he pulled her inside in front of him and pressed his chest into her back while they waited for the entrance's pathway to clear. "But we're here for the scenery."

Grace grinned. "Sure, we are." And as he swiped a hand over the silky sheen of her ruby hair, she twisted her neck around to look up into his face. "You know, if you—" Someone cuffed her shoulder on their way past, knocking her off balance, nearly sending her toppling into the crowd congregating around the corner of the bar. Only Nicholas's arm on her kept her steady.

"Watch where you are going," Nico warned in a quietly dangerous voice, his eyes following the bustling man out the door.

"It's nothing," she insisted, turning around and straightening herself out. She lifted her head, flipping her hair out of her face and over her shoulder as she did so, but froze the second she looked up. An electrified brush of ice assailed the witch's senses, as if a tidal wave of sentient warning had just swept over her, and it had. Her bright Irish eyes landed on a dark stranger who lingered in a far corner of the room, hidden by the edge's shadows, and Grace grimaced at what she was getting from him.

Nico's hand closed around her arm. "Love?" he asked, searching her clouded face then following her stare. When he found what she was looking at, the concern in his expression fled, replaced by blooming displeasure. "We're leaving."

She turned to look over her shoulder at the stranger when Nico took her by the shoulders and forcibly herded her toward the door. The man across the room didn't seem to notice her attention. In fact, his focus was curiously preoccupied by nothing she could see. "Do you know him?" she asked finally once they were out on the street again. "Nico, answer me."

"That's Calhoun," he told her stiffly. Their pace was so brisk that she was having to half jog to keep her feet under her. "Noah Calhoun. And you'll stay far away from him. Are we clear?"

"Not another old acquaintance," she drawled. "I want to know how you know that man."

"It doesn't matter."

"_Nico_," she demanded, jerking her arm from his brusque hold and coming to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. "I need to know. I felt something seriously disturbing in there from him, and I wouldn't have if it didn't have some pertinence to us. So you'll tell me right now. Or I'm going back in there and asking _him_."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Y won't U talk 2 me?_

_I just need time 2 think. Busy here._

_Y don't I believe U?_

_I.D.K._

_Stefan, I'm worried._

_Don't be._

_Something's wrong. I need 2 hear UR voice. Pick up._

_Got 2 go._

_Stefan!_

_?_

_I love U._

_Be home soon. – S_

"_Damn it_," she swore, curling over the side of the tub and pressing her brow into the smooth porcelain. She stayed that way for a long moment, holding her eyes shut and focusing on long breaths, in and out. When that didn't work, she tossed her phone away and hid her face in her hand, then let out a frustrated hiss of air. This was driving her crazy.

But before her obsessing could worsen, Elena felt the familiar zing of awareness ripple through her, tipping her off to Damon's silent arrival. She let the warmth of his presence melt her rigid tension as she shifted in the lukewarm bathwater, turning to face the open doorway between them. "You're allowed to use the door, you know. You don't have to sneak through my window."

He gave her an apathetic shrug and smiled. In a casual white button-down and loose denim bottoms, he looked unusually appropriate in the bright daylight. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up his forearms and the first few buttons were left haphazardly undone. His dark hair looked exactly as it had when she'd left him in bed this morning. And his aquamarine eyes sparkled in the golden light like the sapphire surface of the Pacific. All in all, he was a deliciously warming sight to behold. One that set her senses on fire and spread a strange feeling through her—maybe it was happiness, maybe it was ease, or maybe it was just a melting sort of contentment. It didn't matter. Her worrying stress over Stefan was banked, put on the back burner to make room for her ensconcing awareness of the man with her in the here and now.

Elena curved her chest against the sloping side of the bathtub, hooking her hands and resting her chin on the hard rim. Her eyes went down to the tiled floor in front of here, where her cell began vibrating, calling for her attention.

"Would you be this pitiful if _I_ skipped town?" he wondered, a lilting hue of playfulness keeping the bitter edge in his voice at bay as he rose from the window seat and left behind the sheer curtain of her window, which was dancing against the faint afternoon breeze. He moved into her adjoining bathroom and bent to retrieve the discarded phone, glancing at the screen before silencing it. "Caroline," he told her offhandedly, then tucked the tiny electronic away amidst a pile of fresh towels that were shelved in the old antique cabinet beside the toilet.

"It's about time you've come," she whispered, looking up at him from her sullen position hanging over the rim of the porcelain basin, and then gestured over her shoulder. "I've got twenty minutes left before I'm supposed to be out the door and I still haven't been able to get it all off."

"I like what you've done with your hair," he teased, toying with the upswept bundle of tresses that were piled intricately at the crown of her head. Perched on the closed lid of the toilet, he let the tip of a tendril slide from his fingers as he grabbed at the genuine sponge and dipped it into the bath. Her dark mahogany locks were sculpted into crisply layered spirals that she'd clipped up to keep away from the water. Other than the perm, her nails had been French tipped, but that was about it as far as he could see.

She gave him a small smile then tilted away, exposing the expanse of her back to him and letting her eyes fall closed as he squeezed the excess of water over her flesh. The touch of the sponge was ridged and soft, a substantial pressure as he drew it over down from her shoulders, cleansing her of the lingering remnants of acrylic paint.

A few strokes later, he came closer, moving to kneel beside the tub. It was then that she felt the cool press of his mouth against the nape of her neck, eliciting a rhythm of pleasant shivers. Elena gave a quiet moan, arching into him and dropping her chin to her chest as she gripped the edge of the basin. While he rubbed circles with the sponge across her lower back, Damon turned his head and nuzzled his cheek against the curve of her neck, breathing in the rich vanilla aroma of her hair. She drew one hand over her shoulder, tracing fingertips down the faint mark she'd left the week before over his lifeless pulse point. At the contact, a frisson of electricity sparked through her, a proprietary recognition of sorts. It forced a heady gasp from her and had her spine arching, rising up to lean deeper into him.

"Damon?" she murmured, struggling to think properly as her eyelashes fluttered. The wisp of recognition had reminded her of something, piquing her curiosity, especially while he worked his mouth in a rhythmic ministration across the taut set of her shoulders. "_Damon_."

"Hm?" he answered.

"Is there a reason you haven't bitten me?"

The vampire stilled behind her—eyes opening, dark brow rising. In reply, he parted his lips and clamped blunt teeth over the flesh of her shoulder, until she yipped, then drew back and placed a quick close-mouthed kiss to the sensitive spot behind her ear. "What do you call that?"

Elena spun around, bringing them face to face. "You know what I meant," she chided. "You haven't, well, fed from me since before the night of my first phase." And why hadn't she realized it sooner? "You've always been—I don't know—_adamant_ about it. You've never passed up an excuse to feed from me before. Then, all of a sudden, you're just not interested."

"That's ridiculous," he scoffed, rolling his eyes at her, and then tried to pull away. She caught him by the forearm and shoulder then dragged him back to her, until the only thing between them was the cold press of the bathtub. "Elena—"

"Don't even try to blow it off, Damon. I want to know what this is about. Is it because of what I am now? Is it repulsive or something?" she wondered, her delicate brow furrowing and her lips unconsciously pouting.

"Look." He let out a put-upon sigh and propped his elbows on the rim of the tub as he took her face lightly in his hands and demanded eye contact. "Don't be idiotic. I told you how addictive werewolf blood can be for us vampires."

Elena frowned. "No, you didn't."

"Yes. I did," Damon growled, dragging the pads of his fingers through her pinned hair. "And that was back before I'd experienced it firsthand, while you were still transitioning." He paused, and Elena's brow creased again, this time with intrigue. There was something curious dancing through his crystalline eyes. "Listen to me . . . the last time I fed from you was before your change was finalized. Now that you're truly lupine, I suppose I've been hesitant because . . . I'm worried about how I'll react to tasting you now," he confessed. Then he added an afterthought jerk of his shoulders to try to shrug it off as no big deal.

"What do you mean, you're worried?"

His mouth twisted up at one corner into a suggestive smirk as he dusted his hands over her crisp curls, down her shoulders, and around her arms. "It's alluring stuff, that blood of yours. It wouldn't be a good idea to get attached to it. It could be—"

"What?" she prodded, fisting her hands in the fabric of his white shirt.

"_Overwhelming_ is a word for it," he drawled, then leant down and brushed his mouth across the pouty set of her lips. "That sort of addiction has been known to destroy a man."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Down in Baton Rouge, Lee Briggs was suffering from a serious case of confliction. The room around him was cold and dusty. The air was stale and stunk of death. It used to be his love's parlor. The furniture was still there. But it wasn't the parlor anymore. It was like a stage's set—it looked right, followed the rules, but it was just . . . _wrong_. The bay windows being boarded up with rotten-looking plywood could've had something to do with it.

Lexi's daughter didn't like the light. Or, at least, the woman that used to be Lexi's daughter. Lee had only returned to the Malone Plantation a month ago, but even still, he understood that the girl his love had told him so much about no longer existed. This Skyler was not the one Lexi knew, not truly. Even through the haze of rage that had been eating away at him ever since news of his love's death had hit him, Lee could see that.

When he'd come to see her, to tell her about Lexi's demise, he'd found a creature that truly frightened him. He'd also found that she already knew about her mother's death. Despite his reservations of the situation he'd found himself in, Lee had let her talk him into this plot of revenge. Wholeheartedly, he'd wanted nothing more than to do right by his love. He'd wanted blood on his hands. He'd needed to make her murderer pay for what he'd done.

But now, he sat in the diseased house, he listened, and he began to doubt himself, doubt what he was doing, what he was allowing to happen. He'd never heard someone scream that way, no animal or man. It was more than torture. What that Vodun witch was doing, it went so much deeper than physical torture. Lee didn't even fully understand it, yet he wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy. He wanted the one that took his love from him to pay, but the man down in the cellar had done nothing. Lexi loved this one. He was her best friend. She'd never have sat back and let Skyler agonize him this way, all this time. And the witch wasn't even close to through. She was still thirsty for his pain, nowhere near satisfied.

Lee's guilt had led him to venture down there for the first time the other night, bringing the other man nourishment. But he'd been too mindless to drink the blood Lee had offered. And she'd walked in on him trying . . . she'd scolded him for it, too. Sickeningly playful and deranged, she'd warned him off. Thinking back on that night, Lee knew that neither his doubts nor anything else was going to get him to intervene again. He'd been trying . . . but between his own festering rage and the fear Lexi's daughter invoked, it just wasn't worth it.

"_He may not have staked Mother himself, but he had a vital hand in her death, and that is plenty enough for retribution,"_ she'd justified her actions after Lee's first attempt at reasoning with her.

The imprisoned man had struggled at first, even though it was obvious that Skyler was sick, that there was no rationality about her. He'd gone on about how much he'd loved Lexi, how he'd have never hurt her, how he'd tried to protect her, but the witch had only laughed at his placating pleas. He'd convinced Lee, though. Not that that would do him any good. Lee knew the other man's only chance was if Skyler grew tired of him once she had her real murderer.

"_Don't worry, Mr. Salvatore. You won't be alone for long," _she'd promised with a sly smile of cruelty, the spike of her heels clicking against the stained cement as she circled like a glitter-coated vulture. _"I have big plans for you . . . and your brother."_

The tortured man had only been half conscious at the time. But at her words, he'd piqued, struggling to come back from the void of darkness as he hung from a ceiling beam. Chains connected to rusty hooks that went through his shoulders and wrists were what kept him hoisted in the air and swinging every time she prodded him with an acrylic fingernail or a dagger while she lilted one of her teasing smiles his way.

"_Where is he?" _he'd demanded angrily, his voice nothing more than a broken rasp that spoke of just how detached from reality she was keeping him.

"_Oh, I haven't got him yet," _she purred laughingly. _"But he will come for you, no doubt about that. When the time is right . . . and we have plenty of that, don't we?"_

She'd circled around to stand behind him then and drew a splayed hand up around his bare torso, tracing through the crusted layers of blood that tainted him and splicing fresh wounds open with her jagged-edged nails. She'd risen up on her toes and pressed her cheek to his back, reveling in the way the muscles beneath his torn flesh trembled from the strain.

"_I'm not quite ready to divide my attention yet, you see."_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Damon was only just looping a leather belt through his dress slacks—still shoeless, shirtless, and bed-headed—when Grace and Nicholas returned to the boarding house. While the other vampire meandered his way to the kitchen's fridge for the small supply of blood being stored inside, the redhead rushed up the stairwell, taking steps two at a time. After throwing the door open and barging in, she came to a dead stop at the sound of music. Literally. In one corner of the room, an entertainment stand hosted an array of electronics—stereo, flat screen television, satellite dish, players, and standalone speakers that framed the setup. On the TV, a young Julie Andrews pirouetted her way across a mountaintop.

Grace watched for a moment then turned her attention to the vampire idling before the three-paneled mirror across the bedroom. "Really, Damon?" she asked with an arched brow. "I never figured you the musical type."

He reached up to a corner hook of the antique mirror and snatched off the silk dress shirt hanging there. "What could be more fun than breaking into song while escaping Nazis with a brood of brats?" he quipped, flashing sardonic eyes at her in the reflection. The pastel-blue of the shirt brightened the azure of his irises as he shrugged it on, spinning on his heel to face her.

Grace shook her head, shoving away the distraction and strolling toward him. "Never mind," she said. "Look, there's something we should discuss."

"Come for another mind-blowing go-around?" he teased, kinking his eyebrows and reaching out to catch the cotton of her T-shirt between two fingers. He lifted it up just enough to reveal a sliver of midriff.

"Yes. That's it exactly," she deadpanned.

Damon spared a brief glance at the five-pointed pentagram tattoo that was sketched over her naval and the silver hoop with sparkling diamond stud hooked into the center, and made a pained sound when he withdrew. "No can do, though, beautiful. Nothing's worth what I'd suffer when Elena found out. I've got no desire to be skewered anytime soon."

Grace quirked an eyebrow at him, her head tilting, lips pursing, eyes squinting in consideration. "Funny . . ." she murmured, "that you would assume she'd care one way or the other." Damon stilled at that, sending her a warning glance, but it only egged the witch on, telling her she was on the right—or at least interesting—path. "Considering that when your brother returns, you can bet your bottom dollar Elena won't be spending so much time in _your_ bed."

Something dangerous flickered through the vampire's stare, before he shrugged it off and merely arched a dark brow at her. "What makes you say that?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's just that the girl's priorities aren't much of a secret," she taunted. Not that she believed what she was saying herself, but her witch's intuition was telling her that this was what he should be hearing. "It seems to me, Salvatore, that you're growing a little too comfortable with the current situation. Might not want to forget that it's only temporary," she suggested with a sly smile for him.

"Who's to say that's not exactly how I want it?" he challenged, earning an untroubled shrug of the witch's shoulders. It rankled him, her _suggestions_. Got him thinking of things he'd rather be left unaddressed. "Don't think you've got any insight into me or my motives, Harper. You've got no . . ." He trailed off when he noticed she was no longer listening.

Grace was standing closer now, a little too close for typical. And her attention was focused somewhere below his face. "What is that?" she asked archly, brushing fingertips over the faint mark at the curve of his throat.

Damon drew back, shrugging her off with his shoulder as he scuffed a hand through his bedraggled hair. "War wound," he mumbled and turned back to the mirror while he buttoned up the shirt. "It's what you get when you tussle with an eager little werewolf." When his hands reached the top button, he left it undone, instead gliding up to his collar and folding it back as his eyes lingered over the crescent-shaped scar where neck met shoulder. It wasn't stark, or anything, but it sure was noticeable for anyone looking. "It is a bit curious, though, isn't it?" he murmured, mostly to himself.

"That it never healed?" she guessed, crossing her arms over her chest with a furrowing brow.

He shrugged, avoiding her eyes now as he grabbed a tie and hooked it around his neck, slipping it beneath his collar. "Must be a perk of the werewolf, I guess."

"How long has it been?"

Hands at his neck as he fastened the tie, Damon's gaze rolled up to find Grace's in the mirror as he creased his brow with an edge of suspicion. "About a week," he said. "Why?"

It was Grace's turn to avert at that. "Just . . . so, she's never bit you before? And, you don't know what that mark is?"

"It's a scar, Harper. What's the big deal?"

Grace was quiet as she made her way around the room, nonchalantly putting the queen-sized bed between them. When she finally met his inquisitive stare again, she was more than a little wary. Hesitancy aside, though, the woman was decided. "As a lupine, your girl has a lot of perks. That's true. But that's not what this is."

Sobering, Damon turned around to face her, pinning the woman with a dangerous look. "You know something, little witch. Spill it."

"You have to understand, Damon. The wolves aren't like us, vampires or humans—they're different. Even if Elena wasn't born one, even though she's only been this way a short time, it's who she is now. There are a lot of things that you and I don't know or can't understand about her now." She paused, letting her eyes drift down to his neck. "But that there is something I do know about."

"Get to the point," he snapped.

"Listen, I know why that scarred. And don't expect it to ever fade."

"Because it's a lupine's bite?" he presumed.

"No. Because it's magic," she said casually, drawing a deep frown from him. "You know that wolves, especially werewolves, mate for life."

"No, I didn't know that." His voice was thin and sharp, and it ran a shiver of doubt up her spine.

Ignoring it, she nodded toward the mark. "That there is the second stage of the mating bond. That's why it scarred. It's a physical symbol of the magic that's strengthening. One more step, and the connection she's—well, you both actually—have opened will be sealed and unbreakable. You'll be bound to her as much as she'll be to you." The witch moved cautiously around the bed, around the edges of the room, until she was standing by the window. "She's taking you as her mate, you know. And once that's completed, there's no going backward. There's no divorce, no breaking that bond. It's everlasting, abiding, impenetrable, and all those other synonyms that should make it sink in."

Damon let out a quiet breath of air, expelling the rigidity that'd been gripping him. With a clenched jaw and a carefully controlled ease, he turned away from her, pointedly dismissive. "What's your point?"

Grace moved her shoulder softly. "Just making sure it gets driven home is all," she told him. "I wouldn't want you to misinterpret."

"Why are you telling me this to begin with, Grace? What is it you want?"

"Not all of us are so perpetually self-serving, Salvatore. If you must know, I feel a certain loyalty to Elena."

"Then I'll ask again," he said, whirling back to her. "Why is it you're telling _me_ this?"

"_Because_, Damon, I want to look out for the girl. And that's exactly what I'm doing by explaining this to you right now," she insisted in a stressed voice, impassioned for the first time since she'd walked through the door. "That sort of magic may be innate to her, but it's not for you, and having you left in the dark isn't safe. If something went wrong, it could damage her. And when I say that, I mean the sort of damage you don't just _get over_."

A look of doubt flickered beneath the vampire's stoic mask. But a second later, it was gone—securely locked away from her and the rest of the world. "Fine," he said tightly. "You can leave now."

Grace heaved a weary sigh and pushed her flyaway hair behind her ears as she trudged toward the door. "She's incredibly foolish to do something like this so soon, you know," she muttered, shaking her head. "She's still adjusting. She obviously doesn't understand all the implications. I mean, really, if she's sightless enough to forge a mating bond before even her second full moon, then the girl is obviously going to need firm guidance. Someone like her, someone who knows what it means to be a lupine," she ranted.

Meanwhile, Damon had his back to her again and was staring into the mirror, looking deeply into the hard coldness of his own expression while a sense of breathtaking anger swept over him. It ate away at him with a familiar suddenness. He knew all of this was too good to be true. He _knew_ something more had to be going on, something that would make his new sense of happiness understandable. And now it all made sense. Elena was playing him. All her righteous talk of wanting to give him what he wanted, all that self-sacrificial determination, it was all bullshit. She was just manipulating him, and why the fuck hadn't he figured that out? _He'd known_. He'd known that's what she was doing. He'd known he couldn't trust her. He just couldn't make himself believe it . . . until now, anyway.

"Damon," Grace called. "Are you listening?"

With a calming deep breath, he righted his tie and jerked on his dress jacket, coming to a decision. "I said _get out_."


	3. Point of Impact

**Entry 3: Point of Impact**

At the Historical Society, in one of the lavish upstairs bedchambers that were serving as dressing quarters for participants of the evening's event, Elena finally found a moment of peace. Only a moment, but it was enough for her to luxuriate in several long and deep breaths, enough to ease the dangerous tension of sister wolf's patience. All of these careful trappings and scheduled movements were grating against the wild one in her, the one that _needed_ unconditional freedom as equally as she needed oxygen.

She had just been released from the pristine grips of Ms. Larson, after sustaining an hour's worth of the hairdresser's attention. Apparently, the look of her newly permed hair left down wasn't appropriate, too "mermaid/hippie" in the words of the stylist herself. The woman hadn't been satisfied until Elena's curls had been pinned off of her neck in an old-fashioned but elegant knotted crown. It would take forever to undo, which was all Elena could think of as her tresses were corralled and twisted up. Not to mention the major pain it'd be trying to get out those golden leaflets that were laced through the intricate updo. And now she had less than twenty minutes to dress and be standing at the top of that extravagant spiral staircase with the rest of the Founding Daughters up for display this evening.

After a few more bracing breathing cycles, Elena crossed the room to the gold-framed standalone mirror, where a sapphire satin evening gown awaited her on its hanger. Glancing at her reflection, she couldn't say the hairdo looked anything less than beautiful. Still, it made her itch to unravel all of that work and sneak out one of the room's many windows. Sure, she was on the second floor, and the massive deck outside was crawling with partygoers, any one of which could stand witness to her last minute escape, but there had to be some sort of trelliswork or ledge she could use to get her to the ground, and from there she could make a furious run for it. Yes, not a bad plan at all. A bit haphazard, but it had a chance of getting her out of here.

So, what in the world was keeping her? Oh, right. She'd agreed to this of her own freewill . . . which was the only reason she wasn't currently leaping out the window. _But I can't believe I let myself be roped into this_, she grumbled, using her mental voice as she retouched her lips with the carnelian gloss she was wearing for the night. The noise of activity had lulled quite a bit since she'd first arrived, but the clack of Mrs. Lockwood's heels could still be heard trouncing with purpose back and forth across the hardwood of the corridors as she ran the show, and the girl knew she'd be getting a frazzled pound on the door any minute now.

Elena was just stripping out of her suede boots and leather aviator's jacket when one of the sets of double doors burst open. Before she could whirl and take the bitch-out with grace, she felt that nearly ever-present tingle run up her spine, making her mouth curl. But that was before she actually looked over her shoulder, before her eyes found the man as he stalked inside, and wariness washed over her. The double doors slammed shut with a reverberating _thump_ and the click of the lock reached her ears, an introduction for the noise outside to be overcome as the musician's band out in the courtyard began to play. In his clean-lined suit, pastel-blue dress shirt, and his neatly coiffed ebony hair, Damon looked dreamy. But there was something in his face, something beneath the stoic façade, something that glittered in the depths of his crystalline eyes. It wasn't really something she _saw_ as much as _felt_. It settled an instantaneous coating of dread in the pit of her stomach. Whatever _it_ was, she sensed it immediately. _This can't end well_, she thought passionlessly, already steeling herself with a layer of detachment.

"Damon?" she called, putting every question that whirred in her mind into the quiet of her voice, the shape of his name, the confused crease of her brow. The tense line of his mouth got even tenser, and Elena had to consciously keep herself from stepping back when he made his way toward her, his strides deceptively lazy.

"I've brought you something," he told her in a flat voice. He reached into the hip-pocket of his trousers then and pulled out a delicate strand of gemstones. _A necklace_, she realized when he got near enough and held it up for her, dangling the piece of jewelry from one finger. His eyes hadn't left her face, not for a moment, since he'd come in.

Elena forced herself to focus on the necklace when he stepped into her personal space, crowding her with his stifling aura. It was that "Blue Moon" Arabian pendant she'd been admiring in a magazine last week, the one with a teardrop chain. She would've called him sweet and kissed him, long and savoring. But not now, not when he was acting this way. Her eyes drew from the indigo stone up to his closed-off gaze, and wondered what he expected of her. The proximity was making her shaky. All the comforting contentment of the last two weeks had vanished, and for the life of her, she couldn't say why. What had changed since this afternoon? Had he gotten ahold of Stefan? Had his brother said something that could've upset him to this extreme? _Doubtful_, she thought.

"Matches the dress," Elena whispered lamely. Then, with nothing else to do, she turned around and drew a hand across the nape of her neck, her face downcast as she waited to feel the brush of his fingers. A moment of hesitation went by, but he did eventually hook the necklace around her throat and secure the clasp. "Thank you."

Before she could move away, though, Elena felt his hands close over her shoulders, pinning her in her place, a bruising force that made her teeth gnash with the unexpectedness of it. Damon brought his mouth down to the shell of her ear when she let out a soft cry of protest. "You're good, princess. I didn't think you had it in you," he told her in a low voice. And something like panic slithered through her, its touch cold and clammy as his fingers dug punishingly into her.

"_Damon_," she gasped, almost hitting the floor as her knees buckled under the pressure. He released her a second before she thought she'd lose it, and Elena spun immediately, whirling away and to face him all at once. "What the hell?"

"You're oh-so very righteous," he drawled, looking like an acrid taste had coated his tongue. "That was obvious from the get-go. I'd even accepted it." Backing away, she stumbled over an antique dining chair and rounded one of the ornate settees that filled the room. He kept advancing on her, even when she'd smacked into the wall. "But what I hadn't counted on . . . was the hypocrisy."

Anger ignited inside her then, arching her spine. "That's enough," she snapped. "I don't know what's gotten into you, but I don't have time for this." She pushed away from the wall and tried to move past him, but he was too quick. He had a hand to her collarbone and was shoving her back against the wall before she could register he'd even moved. The pain that echoed through her as her body crashed into the wall under his strength was dizzying. "Damon!" she cried out, voice somewhere between shock and admonishment.

"You acted like you were so much better than Katherine. So pure and honorable," he spat, venom dripping from his hushed voice, his mouth nearly brushing hers as he held her pinned. She could feel his body tremble as he held onto all that rage that was seeping into her skin. "I'm impressed, Elena. Honestly, I am. Feeding me all those self-righteous lines of love and sacrifice with a straight face—hell, you practically dripped of earnestness. When all the time, you were just a _manipulative_ little _bitch_, up on your high horse. You're just as self-centered and ruthless as all the rest of us, _sweetheart_. At least _I_ never pretended to be any better."

"What is your problem?" she ground out through her teeth, pressing her nails into his wrist at her throat but otherwise keeping perfectly still. Struggling wouldn't do her much good. He had her beat where brute force was concerned.

"My problem, little girl, is you." He then jerked her forward, only so he could slam her back into the wall so hard the plaster cracked, making her cry out again with a mixture of pain and irritation. "I don't like being _played_, Elena."

The hard length of his body was crushing her, trapping her against the wall. The ornate golden trim of it jammed harshly into her spine. But worse than all the physical discomforts was the raging hurt and anger that was burning up her insides. Even more confusing than him right now was the wave of fear that rose from her wolf. Like she knew what was going on, and she knew it was bad, worse even than Elena could see. Shoving all of that aside for the moment, the girl met his steely gaze evenly, unflinching against the overwhelming hatred that greeted her.

"_Damon_," she said in a clear, quiet, but firm voice. She relaxed her claws until they were just laying across him, coaxing at his punishing hold on her. "Let go of me. And we can talk about this rationally—"

"_Don't patronize me_," he growled. Then, in a motion that gave her whiplash, he used the hand at her neck to swing her around and throw her through the air. She crashed into a standalone mirror, shattering glass and sending the thing careening, while the momentum kept her going through and past, until she finally hit a wall and landed in a crumpled heap, amid the debris.

The aching of her side was only interrupted by the sharpness of the small shard of glass that protruded from it. Even as she picked herself up, Elena's lungs seized from the suddenness of it all. Escaped curls fell into her face when she hung her head and wrapped a hand around the piece of glass, ripping it out of her body with a strangled cry and sending it skidding across the oak floor. She watched, kind of in shock, as the stab wound closed before the spilling blood had a chance to pool. Her white button-down shirt was ruined, but when she lifted the tattered blouse up, she found only unmarred skin. Still, as the shock wore off, she felt a second wave take her in its suffocating hold. This was all just so _insane_.

What the hell was happening, anyway?

Hunching over where she'd fallen, Elena's fingertips dug against the hardwood, her eyes pinned to the scattered wreckage of glass and framework around her. She stayed frozen that way for a few endless seconds, taking in a deep breath then letting it out. When she finally looked up at him, she found pain and anger warring against one another in his ever hardening expression, darkening even more by the touch of bloodlust that invaded his eyes at the scent of her blood in the air. But that lust was nothing compared to the rest of the storm, the regret, the worry, the concern, the guilt in his eyes was all drowned out by that breathless rage.

There was a part of her—even under these circumstances—that needed to go to him, needed to banish whatever was pulling him into its undercurrent, needed to fix whatever the hell had him so shaken . . . but that was a _very_ insignificant part against the weight of her own baggage. As tears streamed down her cheeks, Elena locked out the hurt, kicked away the wolf's urge to crawl to him with her head held down, and wrapped the emboldening strength of anger around her.

"I'm not trying to _patronize_ you!" she snapped snidely, climbing painstakingly but determinedly to her feet. "I just don't know what the hell you're talking about!"

Once she'd endured those first few seconds of swaying, and was sure that she wasn't going to collapse, Elena lifted her chin and stomped her way toward the nearest escape route. But he wasn't finished with her. A foot away from the door, he had her by the arm and was dragging her away from it. He forced her back then retracted his grip with unusual haste, putting himself between her and her only way _out_ of this senseless confrontation.

"Why keep up the charade?" he asked. "I know what you've done."

"Well, then, you won't mind sharing," she said, swiping sharply at the wetness that stained her face before crossing her arms and jutting out her chin at him. "What is it exactly that I've done to piss you off this time?"

His jaw clenched at that. "This isn't a joke, Elena. I'm tired of the game, so just give it up already."

"I wasn't aware that we were playing a game, _Damon_. You're the one so fond of those. I should know. I've been a pawn in enough of them before."

"That makes it all right, then?" he challenged, closing the distance between them and taking her by the arms. He gave her a sharp shake, making her grit her teeth. "That puts us on an even playing field? Should I have expected it?" he demanded, going from dangerously quiet to overwrought yelling in the span of a second.

"Expected _what_?" she shouted back, shoving at him. When he stumbled off his balance, she jerked from his grasp and darted for the door. He was out of control, and she had a very bad feeling about sticking around while he was like this. Even sister wolf was in agreement this time. _Escape_, she was warning her.

But when was it ever that simple?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Out in the corridor, people were beginning to notice. The music and noise of activity down below kept the volume level of the Historical Society at "pretty distracting." But the women upstairs were close enough to hear the shatter of glass, the impact of something solid hitting another something solid. Oh, not to mention the occasional string of yelling. Like proper ladies when faced with a possibly embarrassing situation, they kept their heads down and played at obliviousness. Well, most of them. At first.

Caroline was only just touching up her makeup for the umpteenth time, ignoring the moaning and groaning of Amanda Jennings for hogging the vanity mirror, when she heard the ruckus going on down the hall. She rolled her eyes and patted the powder brush across her cheekbones one last time. She should have taken advantage of Amanda wandering out of the room to investigate whatever was happening out there, but with the room suddenly empty, she lost the desire to go on pampering herself. Feeling left behind, Caroline rose to her feet and followed after the other girls.

"Are you serious?"

"Totally, can't you hear them?"

"Who's in there?"

"Beats me."

"Duh, who's the only one of us missing? Huh?"

"Well, it's none of our business. Come on."

"No way, this is delicious."

"Move out of the way. I can't hear a damn thing."

"Does anybody have a glass?"

"Get a grip, Becca. That doesn't work in real life."

"Have you ever tried?"

"No."

"Then how do _you_ know, Vivien?"

"I just know. But whatever, if you want to make a fool of yourself, go right on ahead. Ashley, get a picture of this. I'm going to get my shoes."

"Bye-Bye, Biatch."

"Becca," Caroline chided softly as she made her way up to the gaggle of gussied-up girls that were congregating around a set of double doors at the end of the hall. "So, what's going on in there?"

"What does it sound like?" Amanda heckled.

"Girls!" The group spun as one, their eyes widening comically as they all spotted the dragon lady—aka Mayor's Wife, aka Mrs. Lockwood, aka Dragon Lady. "What do you think you all are doing just standing around?"

"We just—"

"—heard a crash."

"The door's locked—"

"And they're fighting."

"—lots of yelling."

"Look," Caroline cut in, snapping her hands at the rest of the girls to quiet them. "There's something going on in there."

"That's enough," Mrs. Lockwood said, her voice clipped. "Go on now." She waved her hand, the one holding the clipboard, and the young girls scattered. Once she was left alone in the corridor, the mayor's wife let her gaze linger on the locked doors before her. The sound of a scuffle reached her ears, and she started to reach for the brass handles. _I'm not to go in there_, she reminded herself. And that was that. She turned and ushered the few lingering girls down the hallway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just as Elena was fumbling for the lock on the door, Damon's arm encircled her waist, lifting her off her feet and spinning them around. When she touched ground again, he used his body in back of hers to force her forward, shoving her away from the double doors. Her pelvis rammed into the edge of an antique rolltop desk that was situated at the rear of one of the white settees, and just like that, he had her pinned again.

"_I want to know why_," he breathed into her shoulder, his cheek pressing into the folds of her upswept hair. The desperation in his voice unfurled something similar in her. His hands ran over her body, rushed and clumsy, and Elena felt the pressure of his arm around her, pressing into her stomach, making it hard to breathe, it was holding her so tight. He buried his face in the apex of her neck, screwing his eyes shut. "I want to know why."

"Damon," she whispered, trying again to get through to him, even as he bent her over the rolltop, nearly crushing her.

Her palms smacked into the ridged surface of the desk for leverage. His erection was urgent and forceful as it rubbed against the curve of her backside. She knew what he was doing, what was happening. She could feel it in the needy press of his body as it molded over hers, blanketing nearly every inch of her, trying to devour her. But for the life of her, she just couldn't work up a fight.

He seemed practically mindless with the intensity of the storm pouring out of him. She still didn't understand. It made no sense. But what she was feeling from him was real enough to bring her to her knees. And that was about the only thing capable of overcoming her anger, her defensiveness, leaving her breathless as she drowned in him, sharing that almost _panicked_ urgency. That need of _something_ just out of reach, something indescribable, something . . . she had no idea _what_.

Elena bit down on her lip, tasting blood, as he kicked her legs apart and tore her jeans open with his free hand. The metal button of the clasp clanged against the wood of the rolltop before bouncing off the floor. The motion riding through his chest played out across her back, every muscle's push and pull, while he one-handedly unfastened his belt and slacks and set his major erection free of the bindings. She was completely trapped—his shoulders against hers, his arms ensconcing hers, his hips to her ass, his legs along her thighs. His face twisted up against the sensitive flesh of her neck at the pressure of it all, the out of control need and fury and hurt, letting her know, making her hands curve harshly over the top edge of the desk as she strived for some semblance of composure against his inner tsunami.

With one careless jerk, he'd dragged her jeans down her hips, letting them bunch around her thighs, and cast aside the lacy scrap of underwear until there was nothing in his way. He wound his arm back around her and splayed his palm over her lower abdomen, up beneath the white blouse. And just like that, with one sudden thrust, he'd embedded himself inside of her to the hilt. In a second of near stillness, she felt her eyes drift closed, while he ran his other hand up the line of her spine, making her quiver.

"What?" he asked into her hair. His grip tightened until another noise of protest rushed past her lips with escaping air. "Did you think by doing your little mating bond that you could own me? That you could make me feel the way you wanted me to?" he whispered against her skin, the harsh sound of his voice making her shiver, worse even than the vulnerable—demeaning—position he'd gotten her into. "You could make me forget. Make me do what you wanted."

_It doesn't work that way_, the wolf whimpered guiltily, sending one more jolt of bewilderment through Elena.

"So I'd belong to you? It makes sense," he snarled, cupping her chin and yanking her head back at a sharp angle, so that he could see her face. "It'd make it so much easier to string me along however you like. Take away all that pesky dissent. Make it so much simpler keeping this tired love triangle going, huh? At least until you change your mind, decide you want something else." He punctuated his words with a jerk of her neck and a sharp roll of his hips, ripping another unadulterated cry from her.

"_Stop_, Damon. You're hurting me," she ground out, fighting against another wave of tears that plagued her, writhing against the Boa constrictor hold his arms had on her, stealing her breath away. "I don't know—"

He drew out of her slowly, killing her voice, and Elena's mouth fell open in one soundless exclamation as he drove back into her, drawing it out. Suddenly, she couldn't remember how to talk, or think, or . . . _anything_. Panting, overwhelmed, seriously shaky, she hung her head and dug her grip into the desk, determined to ride him out—him and the myriad of impressions that swayed her, threatening to overwhelm her. _I'm not helpless_, she told herself firmly—her and sister wolf. This was her choice, her choice to not fight him. They needed to work this out, and that wasn't going to happen unless he vented some of that frustration that had built up inside of him. Not that she could even bring herself to _want_ to stop at the moment. So it was really a moot point.

She kept telling herself that. And it was enough . . . until his arm around her chest forced her upright, and he began moving, controlling her body completely. The power behind his urgent thrusts was breathtaking, and not entirely in a good way. His motions were more punishing than she'd been prepared for, and even with the heady touch of lust rippling through her, she had to let the wolf slip into the forefront to take the pain that was coming with the waves of pleasure. It wasn't traditionally painful, so much as it was _hard to handle_. But with the wolf soul dominating, Elena could get onboard with the assailing sensations. She could meet his thrusts, arching her spine. The wolf bled discomfort and ecstasy into one and reveled in his ferocity, acknowledging his need.

It all fell apart soon thereafter. While she could feel the bruises forming where the fingers of his left hand dug into her hip, Damon drove into her one more time, a thrust so violent that it jostled the entire desk, made it tremble on all four wooden legs, until one splintering break cracked the whole thing asunder. Then he unraveled—coming apart, empting himself inside of her as he climaxed. His face had burrowed in the curve of her neck, mouth open, eyes shut, features twisted. Other than for the frantic breathing, he was utterly silent. His grip on her relaxed somewhat, and Elena would have left it at that . . . had she not distinctly felt the solitary drop of wetness that leaked from his eye to trail down the collar of her shirt, scorching the sensitized nape of her neck with its cold touch.

Looking up at him, she watched as another tear rolled down to his clenched jaw, despite that his face was still hard—cold and stony, keeping her out. It was a struggle to think through the aftershocks still throttling her, but Elena managed. Shifting within his hold, she let her head fall backward into the crook of his neck, pressing her forehead to the hollow of his throat. Her cheeks were drying, but more was coming if she didn't get ahold of herself. She couldn't help it, though. There was such a knee-buckling sense of despair gripping her. It wasn't hers. It belonged to the wolf. Not that that made a difference.

With her face pressed to the side of his throat and him stiff and unyielding around her, Elena swallowed past the lump in her throat and forced her voice out steady. No anger, only resignation. "Come into my mind, Damon. See for yourself." She shut her eyes and focused on opening her mind, concentrating on letting him in. "I don't understand. I've never tried to trick you."

He was tense for a long moment—one she worried would never end. His arms around her were still cinched. But then she felt the faintest quaver of his Adam's apple against the absent press of her mouth, and she knew he could see the truth. All at once, his hold on her went limp. He sagged, nearly falling over onto her as he caught himself on the rolltop, his hands against it on either side of her as he took in several deep breaths and reeled his control back in.

Softened now, he finally slid out of her and tucked himself back into his trousers, his face hidden in the now-ragged crown of her curls. "You didn't know what your wolf was doing?" he murmured quietly. "You didn't—"

"I still have no idea what you're talking about," she said tiredly, ducking her head as she righted her clothing. Her cheeks burned with shame and mortification, feeling more than anything simply _degraded_. The confusion was still gripping her. But she didn't care what all of this was about. Not anymore, anyway . . . not right now. She had the right to feel justified, wounded—irate, even. But she was only weary, a feeling that seemed to go soul deep.

For a moment, at the incessant pleading of her wolf, Elena let herself fade into the background, allowing the wolf to take control. With pale blue eyes and a foreign arch to her stature, she spun in a slow circle, turning in his arms so she could reach up onto her toes and nuzzle her nose into his neck. A pitiful sort of whining came from deep in her throat, a sound the girl hadn't even known she could make, as the wolf pleaded for his good graces.

Damon took her chin in his hand again, this time gently. He forced her face up out of his neck, exposing her glittering eyes to him and creasing his brow at what he found.

_I never lied about my intentions_, she told Elena and Damon at once, the only way she knew how. _Your decisions aren't always mine. I never claimed to accept this one._

_What did you do?_ Elena demanded, but even that felt halfhearted.

_I'll explain,_ sister wolf promised. The "later" was unneeded between them, as was the wolf's desire for the damage that had been done to be repaired. She gave up the reins, returning to the background of Elena's consciousness as the girl came back. Damon tentatively reached out, taking her in his arms when she didn't shy away. He held tightly onto her, hiding his face in her hair. _Ashamed of himself_, sister wolf added helpfully, earning an ungrateful curl of Elena's lip.

"I'm sorry," he whispered so quietly she barely heard him, even with her sensitive ears. The sound of his voice was genuine.

But that weariness inside of her now was still strong. "I know."

Both trembling faintly and dead tired, they clung to each other for a significant while longer, until a brash banging on the left set of double doors pulled them apart. "_Miss Gilbert_," Mrs. Lockwood's harried voice called from the corridor. "I need you in wardrobe and with the rest of the daughters, as in now!"

With an accepting sigh, she began to pull away. When Damon proved reluctant to let go of her, she grabbed his hands and drew them softly off of her, keeping her eyes downcast. "I have to put on my gown."

"Elena—"

"Just go," she whispered, still avoiding his stare, the plea evident in her tone. "I have to put on my gown now." With nothing more, Elena turned away from him, bending carefully to retrieve the sapphire dress that had been tossed aside during their struggle. When she straightened, Damon was gone.

A few seconds ticked by before she pulled herself together. Meandering toward the second standalone, the one left intact, she took in her haggard reflection with a deep sigh, realizing just how much work was ahead of her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Down below in the buzzing foyer, the entry hall with the vaulted ceiling and the marble floor, Bonnie stood looking up, similar to everyone else in the room as they awaited the presentation. Her emerald empire-waist dress was thigh-length and flattering in all the right places. Her matching heels had gladiator straps and were making her feet scream already. Her straightened mocha hair was pulled back, the top layer tied in a small braid while the rest flowed around her shoulders, and the fluffed fringe of her bangs brushed across her brow.

To her right stood Mayor Lockwood and his entourage of suck-ups, and to her left was Sheriff Forbes with Mrs. Jennings, both of whom had daughters being presented here tonight. Over in the corner, Bonnie's roving gaze landed on a man she'd never seen before. _Strange_, she thought as her brow began to knit with suspicion. Her witchy vibes were waking, and they sure weren't happy. But zeroing her attention in on the man, she couldn't come up with anything definitive. It was as if a dark cloud had wrapped itself around him. There was nothing there for her to read.

Before she could investigate, though, someone sidled up to her and drew her attention away. "Here," Jeremy murmured, handing her a flute of champagne, looking downright adorable in his formal suit and tie with his scraggly hair having been cut and combed.

Bonnie ran her eyes down and up him once before giving a small smile and taking the glass, letting their fingers brush as she did so. At the contact, a tingle of electricity ran up her arm. She didn't gasp. In fact, she didn't react at all. It had been happening every time they touched for the last two weeks. She was even starting to get used to it. And the look in his eyes said that he didn't mind. But it did bring up an issue.

This was the third date and there was still no kiss. Which was completely her fault, she'd admit. She was having fun with him, really, she was. Shockingly, she enjoyed herself when she was with him. But she was still distant about touching. There'd been plenty of moments, but every time he went in for the kiss, she deflected. And she couldn't say why. She liked Jeremy, could say that she was even attracted to him. Yes, the idea of that was a little unsettling, considering this was Elena's baby brother. But she could get past that if she wanted to. So what was holding her back, she had to wonder.

"This is taking forever," he complained. "How long do they expect us to wait to watch a few girls walk down a set of stairs?"

Bonnie slipped her glass into one hand and drew the other up to tuck some hair behind her ear as she sipped. The Sheriff caught her eye, giving her a disapproving look for the drink, but otherwise said nothing. Everyone underage attending tonight had access to whatever was being served on the waiters' trays, and there was an open bar out in the courtyard, and a few in here, so there really wasn't much Sheriff Forbes could do without creating an unwanted scene.

"Hey?" he asked quietly, frowning at her distracted expression. When Bonnie blinked and looked back at him, he nodded his head toward the front entrance. "Want to swing by the Grill? Once it's safe to escape, that is."

Bonnie smiled, taking another small sip. "Sure. I haven't eaten all day. By the time we get out of here, I'll be officially starved."

Jeremy grinned. "Perfect."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the other side of the room, Jenna was just slipping away from the incessant grasp of Ms. Larson when she spotted Alaric walking through the door, like a breath of fresh air. Immediately, Jenna's frazzled expression melted away. By the time his searching gaze settled on her, she was practically beaming. See, that whole "give him time" concept was much harder than it should have been. But she hadn't buckled. She'd stayed strong and stuck to her resolve, waiting for him to decide when he was ready. Because of that, though, she hadn't seen him in almost two weeks, not even a glimpse.

She felt herself pulling toward him, crossing the room before she could help herself. Besides, he was here, and he was looking at her. Surely, that meant this didn't count. She wasn't breaking any rule. She was just . . . "Hi," she said the second they met in the center of the room, her voice coming out soft and breathy. She could feel her cheeks flushing, too. "I didn't think you'd come."

Alaric glanced around them, shuffling his feet as a testament to just how uncomfortable he was right now. But when he looked back at her, his smile was genuine. "Yeah . . ." he said very slowly, his hazel eyes lightening as they burned into her. ". . . I, um, wanted to see you."

Jenna thought for a second there that her mouth was going to tear. She caught her lower lip in her teeth and forced herself to _be cool_. "Yeah?" she asked hopefully, inching her way closer.

Alaric's smile was steady, his eyes immovable from her own. "Yeah," he answered, slanting in for a tentative kiss. She stretched up onto her toes to greet him, her hands falling lightly to his chest. He moved his mouth against hers, letting the touch deepen as he dusted through her wavy hair, feeling the silky locks slide from his fingers as he framed her face with his hands and smiled against her mouth, because she was smiling, and her heartbeat was going crazy. _The good kind of crazy_, he thought, and let the familiar warmth of her presence soothe his conflicted soul.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, out front in the long stretch of driveway, Nicholas had just pulled up in his Cadillac Escalade. He slipped from the vehicle in his Armani suit and tossed the keys at the waiting valet. Then he rounded to the passenger side and swung the door open, offering the crook of his arm to the lovely redhead in the white-chiffon cocktail dress. She slithered down to the pavement in her strappy sandals and spiked heels, and he brought her across the drive onto the front veranda.

They were welcomed by the scent of baking bread and the sound of instrumental music. Hadn't even stepped inside yet, and already he could feel the pretension threatening to choke him. He'd never been a fan of these soirees. "This was a marvelous idea, love. I'm already enjoying myself," Nicholas quipped.

Grace smiled, shook her head, and patted him on the arm. "Give it a chance."

"Oh, yes. I'll be sure to keep my mind open. Who knows? By some miracle, this just may turn out to be entertaining."

"Hush, Nico. It's not so—" The rest of the witch's words died on her tongue the second they stepped into the grand entrance hall. Not because of the coat checker or the black tie adorned guests occupying the room, but because of the hit her psi sense took when her eyes went directly to the vampire that skulked at the edges of the room. Such a tumultuous state he was in. It knocked through her like a feral wave, and in response, Grace felt a surge of regret. She felt the wind rush out of her. "Oh no," she whispered, dropping Nicholas's arm and weaving through the partygoers on her way to the lurker. "No, no, no." Nic was at her side by the time she made it there. "You hotheaded idiot," she whisper shrieked. "Tell me you didn't."

Damon's clouded features tightened, his agitation ever increasing. "You could have told me that it wasn't Elena's fault," he accused heatedly, towering over her.

Grace returned his glower. "I didn't know that. And I wouldn't have told you _anything_ had I known you were going to attack her!" she snapped, smacking him in the arm with the back of her hand, rocketing a jolt of summoned electricity through him.

Damon's jaw clenched, teeth grinding, though whether it was the electricity or her words was up for grabs. "I did not a—" He stopped himself, apprehension flickering through his expression. "_Fuck_," he cursed, scrubbing a hand over his frazzled face. "I did attack her."

The witch's face scrunched up at him. "No, ya think?"

"Christ, I don't know what got into me."

"I do," she said shortly, crossing her arms. "And if I'd known you were going to go off half-cocked and do something this stupid, I might have tried to explain it to you."

"Um, excuse me." Nicholas cut in between them. "Care to share what the hell is going on here?"

"No," Grace snapped.

"Wait, wait, wait," Damon hissed. The plagued cast to his face softened with a flicker of curiosity, an almost desperate hope. "What did you mean?"

Grace glanced around them before she slugged his shoulder with her fist and leaned in. "Part of that whole 'bonding process' I mentioned earlier? Yep, that's heightened emotions, less restraint. Not that that _excuses_ anything," she added, casting a sideways glance at her mate, who was observing quietly. "Remember how Nico reacted first meeting the girl?"

"I thought we were going to quit bringing that up," Nic groused.

"It's relevant."

"No," Damon decided, his eyes off somewhere above her head. "It's really not."

"But—"

"Whatever," he snapped. "It doesn't matter." Then he brushed between the two lovers and slinked out of sight.

"Well, that went well."

Nicholas turned to look at her. "I still don't know what just happened."

Grace just shook her head, already feeling the guilt swell inside her. This was such a freaking mess. It was a mess when they'd come to town, even more messy now, and getting messier by the minute. Somehow, the all-knowing Wiccan had just made everything worse. And now she was feeling like crap. "We have to start minding our own business from now on."

"Us?" he challenged.

"Okay. Me."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Miss Caroline Forbes. Escorted by Mister Matthew Donovan," Mayor Lockwood announced, ushering in the beautiful blonde's path down the staircase. Her glittery golden gown swished like silk around her feet as she came down. Her eyes were on the boy in the tux who awaited her at the bottom.

Up at the top of the landing, Elena snuck up to the end of the line of daughters waiting their turn. The flush to her cheeks was because she was out of breath. The mussed look of her knotted crown was not _blaringly_ misshapen. And her dress was flawless. No human in the room would have a clue as to the state of her body beneath the pristine sapphire gown with the halter bust and the hourglass waist. No one would know about the spots of dried blood or the sticky residue between her thighs that she hadn't had a chance to wash. Her face was cool and placid. No one would ever see the riot going on inside of her.

Amanda Jennings was called next, and Elena felt a flutter of anxiety as her group thinned out. She really did not want to do this now. Would he even be down there? After what happened, would he be waiting at the bottom of the stairs for her like he promised? _He damn well better_, she thought with more than just a trace of a bitter edge. The only thing that could possibly make this evening any worse would be for her to trip in her ridiculous heels on the way down, and tear her dress, then fall all the way down there to find that her escort was a no-show. Yes, that would be fitting.

_Can I say again that I'm sorry? I did not mean for this to happen, _the wolf whispered in the recesses of her mind._ Though in hindsight, I realize I should have anticipated his reaction. Betrayal is a very touchy issue for Damon._

_You're a real bitch, you know that?_

_Technically, yes._

_Just shut up, _Elena snapped. She so wished there was a way for her to be vicious. How was she supposed to punish a part of herself? The one that the ruling part had no control over, that is. God, this was so confusing.

"Jesus, Gilbert." Elena looked up to find Vivien eyeing her. The other girl's haughty nose was in the air, per usual, her eyes derisive, her smile amused and mocking. "What the hell happened to you?"

Elena shrugged. "It's windy out there. Just hope it doesn't start to pour during our dance," she whispered, letting her lips upturn the slightest at the look of horror that crossed the other girl's face.

Vivien spun and scurried after Mrs. Lockwood with rising panic, and Elena was alone with her thoughts again.

_He said something about a mating bond. That's what you've done, isn't it?_ Elena asked, gripping the brass of the landing's balustrade and taking a deep breath.

_Yes,_ sister wolf confessed. _But you cannot blame this all on me._

_Oh, no? _Elena snapped.

_No. You started this._

Elena's brow furrowed. _Excuse me?_

Ashley Jennings was announced, leaving only Elena and Vivien.

_The night of the full moon,_ the wolf told her smugly. _ We bedded Damon and Stefan. You forged the mating bond with them both that night. You awakened the magic._

_That's a lovely way of putting it, _Elena drawled snidely. _I don't even really remember that night. How convenient of you to bring it up._

_That is also not my fault. You were still fighting me then. That's what you get for denying an important aspect of your own psyche. It can cloud reality._

Elena rolled her eyes and turned her back on the balustrade. _Okay, so I slept with them. That's all. I didn't "forge" anything. And that doesn't justify what you did. In fact, that doesn't even make sense!_

"Miss Vivien Larson. Escorted by Mister Tyler Lockwood." The girl in the slinky black Versace turned her head as she took the first step, tossing a superior look over her shoulder at Elena. _I'm so going to enjoy your inevitable humiliation_ is what that look said. Elena just sent her a smarmy smile.

_Okay, _she thought, summoning the wolf back. _So explain—_

"Miss Gilbert." _Oh Brother_.

With a huff of frustration, Elena turned to face the approaching Mrs. Lockwood. "Yes?"

"What on earth happened in your dressing room?"

Elena's eyes went skyward of their own accord. _Can't you give me a break, just one?_ In her best "intrigued innocence" disguise, Elena raised her brow and twisted up her mouth. "I have no idea," she exclaimed, looking mildly scandalized. "I just found it that way."

Mrs. Lockwood's face scrunched with suspicion. "But—"

"I know. Isn't that weird?"

"Yes, well—"

"I wonder what happened."

Mrs. Lockwood opened her mouth, looking unconvinced.

"Miss Elena Gilbert. Escorted by Mister Damon Salvatore," her husband's voice cut in from below them.

Elena flashed the older woman a brilliant smile. "_Whelp_, that's me, gotta go." And before she could be questioned further, the girl was at her place at the top of the stairs, beginning her descent.

In one hand, she carried a sliver of her gown's skirt, lifting it in the way her mother taught her in order to avoid any slipups yet still look the paramount of poise, while her other palm slid along the smooth brass of the railing. Something she'd been told time and time again to _not_ do was what she relied on now to keep her calm—she schooled her gaze on the stairs, watching her steps avidly, blocking out the room before her.

Elena waited for the very last moment before looking up . . . only to be greeted with the sight of a perfectly suave Damon Salvatore awaiting her at the lower landing. He looked respectable and utterly untroubled. The mask of his face was all composure. Yet that glint in his azure eyes when they connected with hers told Elena everything she needed to know about what was really going on beneath the façade.

_You are the one that opened the link, _sister wolf whispered. Elena was ever nearing her escort. _You chose them. The first stage was all of your doing. _There were only a few more steps to go. _What was I supposed to do? When you decided to just give one of your soul mates away to someone else, I had to try to follow the bonding process through as quickly as I could. For all of our own good,_ she defended. _You put me between a rock and a hard place._

_That doesn't excuse anything,_ Elena insisted. _You shouldn't have hidden it from me. _She made it to the landing and let her palm slip into Damon's as he offered. Then, with their clasped hands held level to their chests between them, he escorted her through the opening in the crowd and out onto the smoothed deck in the courtyard.

_If I had tried to tell you, you might have done something troubling,_ sister wolf explained, her previously bristled voice sounding patient now.

Elena felt her heart pounding in her chest, as if it'd constricted. Breathing subtly was suddenly harder than she'd ever imagined. Damon's hand holding hers was cool and firm, his grip on her tentative but certain nonetheless. But he couldn't be her lifeline here, not when he was the cause of it all. _What you mean,_ she began painstakingly,_ is that I might have made it worse._

In reward, she felt a wave of the wolf's inner peace wash over her. It squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and softened her face. It allowed her to breathe. _You do not understand us yet. You do not know the damage you could do._

Elena felt her jaw lock. _You're saying that some choices are out of my control? My own choices are out of my control. Is that what you think? If so, you're insane._

_It's not that simple._

Elena took in a steadying breath as Damon deposited her in her designated spot. His eyes on hers, he backed away until he was aligned with all the rest of the escorts on the dance floor. Then they awaited the music's crescendo.

The crowd was gathered at the rim of the deck, encompassing the fringes. The sun had set while she was inside, leaving them in the midst of a rapidly darkening twilight. The deck was bordered fancifully by torches, while white rope lights strung up across the rear veranda and outer hedges illuminated the rest of the courtyard. It was beautiful. But she couldn't enjoy it.

_You still should have told me,_ she added stubbornly. The idea that those blackouts in her memory were because of the wolf, because of this separate part of her being that was out and about _doing_ things while the majority of her consciousness was unaware was _unsettling_ to say the least. Sometimes, this was all just a bit too _multiple personality disorder_ for Elena's liking.

_I couldn't trust that you would listen to me,_ the wolf told her._ You've proved too unpredictable in the past. Stubborn, resistant, hardheaded—_

_I get it_, Elena snapped, quieting the wolf's voice in her mind. She could feel Damon reaching out for her—his mind to hers—but the wolf had her guard up, impenetrable blocks that were wrapped around Elena like a shield, blocking out all outside influence in order to keep that balance of calm on the inside uninfected. Still, even without his voice in her head, she could feel his presence weighing heavily on her. The intensity of his eyes fixated on hers was just the tip of the iceberg. When the incline of the violin ushered in the rest of the musicians, the couples on the deck moved into their classic cotillion dance. One step took them to the center, together in a line of pairs, right hand to right raised, centimeters from touching, while they circled one another. They glided, reversing positions every cycle, before finally ascending into a traditional waltz.

It was then that it hit her. Unexpected, distracting, dumbfounding, it drew her from her sad and bitter thoughts. His hand splayed tentatively at the small of her back, sliding over the satin of her sapphire gown, fingers brushing the exposed slivers of flesh through the crisscross of the halter, his other clasping hers, their steps swaying in uneven squares, turning in semicircles across the deck. This was familiar, so familiar it left her breathless. This had to be the most intense sense of déjà vu she'd ever experienced.

"We've done this before," she whispered.

Confusion flickered through Damon's eyes. "Come again?"

Elena looked up at him, feeling peculiarly befuddled herself. "We've done this before," she whispered again, trying to sound surer.

Damon's gaze flicked around them before coming back to hers. "No, we haven't."

The urge to argue dissipated suddenly, along with the feeling of repetition, and she simply fell expressionless once again. "Never mind," she said softly, drifting away again into her withdrawn haven.

Damon and Elena lingered in their absent motions as the rest of the pairs scattered and the deck filled with guests, surrounding the duo, completely oblivious. There was that small space of distance between their bodies still, their frames stiff and structured, their eyes on one another. They were so close. And yet she felt untouchable. She'd shut herself away where he couldn't find her. Though that saddened her, there was something undeniable holding her back, keeping her from letting him in again. She wanted to. More than anything. But she couldn't. She just . . . couldn't.

Even through the wolf's soothing armor, Elena could still feel the force of his turmoil, that hatred that had seeped from him when he'd come to her. He'd scared her. It seemed so long since she'd been genuinely afraid of Damon. She'd almost forgotten how it felt—not knowing him, just knowing that he was capable of anything, that she couldn't predict what he would do, believing that she was never safe around him. Had she let herself become blinded since then? _No_, her heart told her. That wasn't it at all.

There was darkness inside of Damon, this part that was cold and hard and angry and inhuman. Or maybe those inhuman qualities were more human than anything else. Maybe it was because of what he was, what he'd been through, or the unnatural life he'd led. Coexisting with that darkness, though, was his humanity, the little things that drew her to him in the first place. Still, even when he had the face of an angel, she couldn't ever let herself forget again how dangerous that _something else_ lurking beneath the surface was. Up in that room, he was out of control. He was _vicious_. Looking at him now, no one would ever believe it. She'd seen him lash out before whenever he was hurt, but nothing to that degree. All of the marks he'd left still clung to her skin, making her feel used up and soiled. When she'd finally gotten through to him, she'd felt that overwhelming rush of regret and guilt that had flooded from him. But what did that really matter?

When had incidents like this become the norm? How wrong was it that—deep down—she'd come to expect it? Somewhere along the line, she'd gotten to a point where she'd accepted this kind of thing as a part of her life now. But that wasn't right. She couldn't let it stay that way. Sure, she was a werewolf now. Yes, she was in love with two vampires, respectively. Yes, her aunt was falling for a vampire slash schoolteacher. And her best friend was a witch. And nasties kept popping up out of the woodwork trying to kill her or someone she loved. But that didn't mean she had to invite this type of behavior in. She fought to keep the darkness at bay, the violence and the pain. But how was she going to do that? How was she going to hold onto her values, her principles? How was she going to keep some semblance of balance in her life if she was with someone like Damon? Someone deeply flawed and volatile.

No, he wasn't evil. Yes, she _believed_ he had goodness in his heart. And he could be wonderful. But sometimes, he could also be no different than the monsters she'd struggled for her life against. And her wolf wanted to bind them together forever? Even aside from the fact that he still wanted Katherine more than her, it was a very bad idea. Elena wasn't certain that she could do that. In fact, the more she thought about it now, the surer she felt that she could not let that happen. She was in love with Damon. Most assuredly, undeniably, and so very irrevocably now. But that couldn't be the be all and end all of it. She couldn't let it be.

And what about his brother? It was times like this that she missed Stefan the most, that the difference of her loves contrasted the most powerfully. With Stefan, it was so simple and pure, easy almost, even through all the hard times. But everything with Damon was the polar opposite. Loving Damon was messy and painful and exhausting and terrifying. There were sweet periods, lengths of time when she'd grow complacent, when she'd nearly forget. But then it was right back into the fire. This was an endless struggle that she hadn't signed on for . . . Or had she? After all, it was her choice to accept her feelings for Damon. She allowed them to cross that line that was drawn in the sand. And when she had, she knew who he was. So, really, she only had herself to blame for how neck-deep she was in all of this. She couldn't say that this wasn't what she signed on for, because that was a boldfaced lie.

God, this was such a mess. What did she do to invoke such a bloody turn in her life? It seemed that ever since her parents died, life for Elena had been nothing but a bed of thorns with no chance at reprieve. Had she ever done anything to deserve this? Was she being punished for past life sins? Forget it. What did it matter why? The fact of the matter was that this was her life now. This was who she was.

She did wonder, though, if it really had to be. _If I had a choice . . . would I take any of it back? Or is it worth it?_ The 64 million dollar question of the evening, she supposed.

"How long is the silent treatment going to last?" he wondered softly, gripping her hand as he twirled her.

When Elena came back to him, she let her eyes wander over his shoulder, roving over their surroundings. The shadows, the woods in the distance, the trimmed hedges that sparkled with the rope lights strewn through them, the varying formal attire of the guests that milled about, glasses of various tonics held closely like crutches. She didn't feel like dancing anymore. Not that she'd felt like it to begin with.

"I don't want to talk, Damon."

"Fair enough," he murmured vacantly, then let her slip from his grasp and followed when she began making her way out of the spotlight of the deck and into the anonymity of the veranda. He trailed her all the way across the courtyard, between pillars and people, watched her swipe a flute of champagne off of a passing waiter's tray without pausing and knew she was wishing for something harder, until she found herself a nice dark corner to sulk in.

Elena let her posture dissolve into a slouch against a pillar at the very edge of the rear veranda, leaning backward against the limestone balustrade behind her. The wind was at her back, growing fiercer with each passing hour, rustling wildly through her upswept hair, turning loose tendrils into flyaway whips. She hadn't wanted to talk. Really, she hadn't. But in the seclusion of this shadowed corner—with the loud whistling of the wind dulling the chatter nearby—when Damon sidled up close, she just couldn't keep her mouth shut.

"What are you doing?" she snapped, hedging pointedly away from him.

Damon cocked one eyebrow, the only nuance to break free of his stoic façade in the last ten minutes. "Whatever do you mean?"

She dropped her eyes to their feet then rolled them back up again and arched her brow, letting the disdain roll off her tongue. "By being here you are defeating the whole point of my _walking away_ from you."

"And here I thought you just wanted to be alone with me," he quipped in a flat voice, gaze going to the kaleidoscope sky beyond her.

Elena's eyes narrowed at him. "Would you get bent?" she bit out, sharp and quick. She needed to be alone. She needed time. How was she supposed to deal when he was taking up her breathing space?

Damon gestured at a passing waitress, the woman's tray carrying hors d'oeuvres, and snatched up a deviled egg and napkin as she passed. He tried to hand it off to Elena, but she only frowned, making him raise his brow and huff out a breath of repressed frustration. "Eat something," he told her brusquely, attempting to feign cavalier. "Your low blood sugar is bitching me out."

A snap reflex had Elena's wrist flicking, tossing her drink in his face. The amber liquid dripped from his chin, glued tips of his hair to his forehead, bunched up his eyelashes. She watched his mouth fall open, cringing his eyes shut against the sting of the alcohol. They earned at least two sideways glances. Because of that, Elena pushed away from her pillar and invaded his personal space, her voice hushed and fierce as words flowed from her. "Just because I understand, _doesn't_ make it okay. So do me a favor and _don't_ act like it is."

After fastidiously wiping at his wet face, Damon looked up at her, his eyes intense and indecipherable. "Okay."

She went on then in a softer tone. "If you're going to react like that every time you get angry, I'm not going to be anywhere near you."

"Elena—"

She shook her head, silencing him as she drew away. "Whatever your plans are for opening the tomb, I'll help you if you need it. I made a promise." She wanted to stop right there, just keep her mouth shut, because she knew she'd regret this. But she couldn't. In the long run, she knew this was her only viable choice. "But as of now, you and I are finished." And with that, she left him there, stalking off, willing herself to not look back, and she didn't, not once.

Damon watched her go. And even though he'd recently shut down the most of himself he could manage, he still felt helpless. He felt like shuffling his feet and scratching his head as she disappeared into the crowd. The scent of eucalyptus that clung to her tonight drifted through the smog of every other person's base scent here and let him keep tabs on her once she was out of earshot.

After warring with himself for a long frozen moment, he finally opted to let her be. Intuition told him it was not a good time to chase after her. She needed to cool down. But every second that passed, Damon felt himself growing cooler. He despised the riot that had been raging in him. He'd had to shut it out, but doing that shut out most of everything else as well. Normally, that wouldn't be a problem. But he'd just been getting used to being open. She'd relentlessly wormed herself inside him, and because of one moment of abandon, he'd gone and fucked everything all to hell.

_No_, a hard voice echoed through his awareness. "She'll get over it," he murmured, swiping a flute from a passing tray and downing it, just to replace it on that same tray as he weaved his way across the veranda. "We'll get over it." He headed for the open bar out on the deck, trying unsuccessfully to block out the rest of the courtyard. "Seven and seven," he ordered, tapping his knuckles impatiently on the bar.

"What's eating you?" a diminutive little voice purred from over his right shoulder.

Damon turned, leaning back on his elbow against the glass of the open bar. "Well, if it isn't Baby Dupré." It was just what he needed at this particular juncture, a visit from the tiny troublemaker and her British puppy. "You're looking especially lovely this evening." He gave her a perfunctory onceover then let his gaze stray over the young one's shoulder with a crooked brow. "Where's the lapdog?"

"Mingling," she answered, sidling up to him in her slinky ivory dress and clutch. "But I wouldn't worry. He's close enough to know when to make a scene."

The barkeep set down a highball glass and Damon scooped it up with a crooked smile. "What can I do for you, Miss Dupré?"

"Can't a girl come say hello without ulterior motives?" she asked smarmily, a sly smile gracing her lips and a kink to her eyebrows. When Damon remained unmoved, she let the expression drop and nodded sideways. "Walk with me, Salvatore."

"My pleasure," he quipped, picking up his drink and following her over to one of the meandering paths that cut through the hedges and wound deeper down the courtyard, taking them away from the illumination of the deck. "What's on your mind, girl?"

Anna's fingers played at a loose stitch in her clutch as they walked side by side through the shadows, the clack of her heels against the stone noisy in the quiet around them. The sound of the party had faded into the background the further they went. "I want to talk about Emily Bennett's grimoire," she said, turning to face him.

Damon kept walking, ignoring the young one's hesitation. "Well, this should be interesting."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elena let herself breathe once she'd turned a corner and could shut her eyes and feel it wash out of her in a rush. She was afraid it would be a floodgate. But the wolf's soothing touch was unshakable. It wrapped around her tighter than ever before and allowed her to keep a brave face for the crowd. Still, she could feel her hands shaking as she tried to get lost in the stream of humans. All of these people around her, they were Shiny Happy People with absolutely no idea of what horrific moments were going on around them. They never had any idea. And thinking of that made Elena feel more alone in this room full of people than she'd ever felt before. It just now was sinking in. She wasn't one of them anymore. She was different, nonhuman. She didn't belong here. How absurd was it that she—Elena Gilbert of all people—would now be an outcast? Not even a normal outcast, she was a _secret_ outcast. How ridiculous this was. Funny, it didn't _feel_ ridiculous. It felt despairing.

She was a Wolf Girl with no pack. That was just _wrong_. Before, she had her cheerleading squad, her family, her circle of friends. Then, when the werewolf thing happened and even a bit before that when a sense of detachment had swallowed her up, she had Stefan, and Damon, and Jeremy, and Bonnie. In a way, she felt—though she was only now just realizing it—that she also had Ben and Tyler in a distant sort of way. They were there, down at the end of a connection, waiting. That was her pack. Those misfits were her people now. Not these humans, these people that felt so far away, so _foreign_. So, why was she walking away from Damon? If she didn't belong with him, with his brother, with their world, then where did she belong? Where did she fit in?

_I really didn't think this through, did I?_

_These choices are not permanent,_ sister wolf assured._ Just relax now. Give yourself time to breathe. Nothing needs to be solved tonight._

"Right," Elena murmured, nodding her head as she weaved through the crowd in the entrance hall. "You're completely right. I'm just freaking out, getting all deep and philosophical. I need to be literal right now. I need to just . . . not worry."

That was when she spotted Grace. The redhead had an elbow propped on one of the open bars that were set up near the archways. Elena sidled up to her and followed the witch's gaze through the archway and out onto the open veranda, where Nicholas was laying some heavy charm on Vivien Larson out on the fringe of the deck.

_Right_, she thought. Now the morose look on the witch's face made sense. "Why do you put up with it?" she asked, genuinely needing to know. Grace seemed so strong and badass, so sure of herself. She never came across as the doormat type.

The redhead upended her martini into her mouth and shrugged her shoulders, never taking her eyes off of her flirting mate. "I love him."

And the sore spot was efficiently poked. "That doesn't mean you can't walk away."

"It wouldn't," Grace admitted in a blasé tone, "if it wasn't for that 'soul mate—can't live without him' kind of love."

Elena tucked a fallen tendril behind her ear and took a club soda from the bartender. "You've been with him since you were fourteen, just a kid." She shook her head then leveled the witch with a skeptical look. "He's never been faithful?"

Grace's manicured eyebrows raised at that. "With his body? No. Not always. With his heart, though . . ."

Elena's face scrunched. "And that's enough for you?"

"Hell, no," she snorted. Grace then twisted and waved her empty martini glass for the bartender's attention. "But I'll get my way eventually. I always do."

Elena wasn't impressed. "It's been twelve years," she said.

"Which is a lot to you and me," Grace retorted, tapping her hands on the glass surface of the bar. "But to them, it's barely a moment."

Elena turned, following Grace's gaze back out to the veranda. She eyed Nicholas for a long moment, mulling it over. The conclusion she came to was unhelpful to say the least. "I guess."

"Now, if you'll excuse me." Grace picked up her refilled martini. "I have to go guard my territory." Then, with a quick grin for Elena, the redhead sauntered off after her wandering mate, leaving Elena behind feeling more confused than ever.

Wouldn't it be great if a stroke of enlightenment would just come by and smack into her? Maybe then she wouldn't feel so lost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"And you expect _what_ from me exactly?" Damon asked, arching his eyebrows.

Anna slanted to a stop and let out a put-upon sigh. "Your father was the one safekeeping the grimoire, Salvatore. You expect me to believe that you have no idea what he could have done with it?"

"Believe whatever you will, Dupré. Fact of the matter is I've no idea where Daddy Dearest tucked away the witch's cookbook," he told her flawlessly, only _partially_ dishonest.

She paused to eye the younger vampire as he sauntered down the meandering path, strumming his hands absently along the tops of the holly bush hedges that ran alongside them. "I don't buy that for a second, Salvatore."

"Oh?" he answered with an amused lilt, glancing over his shoulder at her. "So, what do you suggest?"

"My request?" she purred, smiling, tilting her head, catching up to him effortlessly. "We team up. You and I want the same thing, after all. Going around in circles of each other is unnecessary. I don't have the patience to waste that kind of time," she said.

"First, I don't do teams. Secondly, I'm not interested." He shrugged negligently, his eyes on the pitch dark of the landscape. "So take your alliance and find someone else."

An irritated scowl marred Anna's heart-shaped face. "Why are you being so difficult? I'd have thought you'd be desperate by now to get into those catacombs."

"Desperate isn't in my vocabulary, baby girl." He smirked. "Besides, I'd rather sit back and let you do all the work. I've been at it long enough."

She didn't seem impressed, not one bit. "This newfound reluctance wouldn't have anything to do with having your hands full of the lupine lookalike lately, would it?"

"If it did, it wouldn't be any concern of yours."

Anna let out a sharp scoff. "Never mind, I don't care." She blurred, curving around until she was standing directly in his path, looking up against their full foot of height difference and managing to look anything but intimidated. "I didn't assume you would make it easy. But I had hoped."

"_Stupidly_, I might add."

"But that's it?" she asked, sounding unbelieving. "Together, we could do this practically effortlessly. And you're just going to reject me? Why? Do you already have the grimoire?"

He smiled, perfectly placid. "Nope."

Anna crossed her arms, scowling at him. "So, you just _want_ to do this the hard way."

"Now that we've cleared that up," he drawled, sidestepped her, and started his stroll back to the mansion.

Anna didn't bother to follow him. "We're far from finished, Salvatore."

He spun and began walking backward as he glanced her way with an ironic smirk. "Gonna tell me to watch my back now, Baby Dupré?"

"There's no need for that," she said quietly, her back to him still. "After all, we both want the same thing, don't we?"

He only smiled, then turned and disappeared.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, Elena's private wallowing was disrupted when Sheriff Forbes and Mayor Lockwood herded one another up to the bar she was hiding beneath. The bartender had been awfully nice when he'd let her take her glass—which had been in need of substantial filling—corral up the skirt of her gown and crawl behind his workstation. Amidst the shelves of hard liquor bottles, she nursed a champagne flute full of bare whiskey and took comfort in the fact that, besides the smirking—halfway hot, too—bartender guy, no one could see her here. She could let her face relax out of that "I'm perfectly pleasant and totally vacuous" disguise that had been making her mouth muscles ache. But then she heard the sheriff's soft-spoken voice register out of the indeterminable buzzing of the room, and Elena tensed.

For the last ten minutes, she'd been trying to get plastered. Yep, that's what she'd been trying to do. But in those ten minutes, she'd come to the realization that—as a werewolf—her already impressive tolerance for alcohol had skyrocketed. Meaning: she wasn't making much progress. Yes, she'd sworn to herself after the accident that she wouldn't be the party-girl anymore. But there was no cookie dough and brownie bit ice cream around anywhere, so what was a girl to do? Not that any of that mattered now. Her heartbeat was panicking. All Elena wanted to do was slip away before she got caught and managed to humiliate herself once more this evening. But her escape was held back by Bartender Guy's legs, which were directly in her path of exit. She'd just have to stay tucked up under here until he moved down to the other end, then she could crawl out and slip away through that corridor there. And none would be the wiser.

"Honestly, I'm just relieved." The Sheriff sure didn't _sound_ relieved. Then again, her voice was always kind of blasé. She wasn't much of a projector. She kept her emotions on a short leash, which was part of why Elena always felt a bit uncomfortable as a child whenever she'd stay at Caroline's.

"Don't you think that's a little premature, Sheriff?" Mayor Lockwood chastised quietly. At the level they were speaking, Elena realized that the only reason she could hear them so effortlessly was because of her newly enhanced senses. The rest of the room, however, including Bartender Guy, wouldn't be able to make out a word of it.

"Not really," she argued in that careful tone used for navigating landmines. "No new bodies have been found in over two weeks, sir. And the local banks haven't reported any thefts. We've been keeping tabs on all of them within fifty miles of city limits."

_Banks?_ Since when did Mystic Falls have bank robbery problems? Elena pressed her back into the shelf behind her and hugged her glass to her chest, pinning it between her knees and the valley between her breasts as she rested her forehead in her hand. She was so confused. Why didn't anything ever make sense anymore? This was getting ridiculous. She wasn't going to put up with it anymore. She wasn't "in the dark" girl. She was "center of it all" girl. She always knew what was happening. She was always a part of it somehow. This just wasn't natural. She—

"You want to assume that they packed up and moved on already?" Mayor Lockwood asked, and Elena could _hear_ the patronizing look he was giving out. "Simply because they haven't been sloppy recently, doesn't prove that they're gone. As soon as it seems over is when the bloodbath truly begins," he warned.

Bloodbaths? Bodies? Banks? Oh! Right, blood banks—Damon got his packaged donor's blood from the American Red Cross Centers. And the body count in town had really been piling up this last year, what with all the recent supernatural activity. What with Damon coming to town and wreaking havoc, then all the victims that Gabriel McKittrick had been racking up for who knew how long, not to mention the leftovers of all the other vampires that seemed to have followed the Brothers Salvatore here. Okay, yeah, now things were making sense.

Then it hit her. _This last year_, she thought, feeling stricken. This had all started back in September. Had it really been eight months already? On one hand, it felt as if she'd been bogged down in this new world of hers for an eternity by now. But on the other hand, when she thought back to the stasis of life before the Salvatores came to town—the normal humdrum existence—it felt like there was no way it could have been that long ago. How had she let go of that so easily? Come on! That was all she'd known her entire life and then BAM, down the rabbit hole and into Neverland. Or . . . whatever.

"You're right," the sheriff conceded, sounding disappointed. "We can't let our guard down just because the town's been quiet lately. Still, I do believe the worst is over with."

"I've been talking with the others, and we all agree. The only way we'll know for sure is to go ahead with what we'd planned," Mayor Lockwood demanded. "If we dump enough of the herb into the water tanks, we'll have people ingesting on a widespread scale. Even if it's only for precaution's sake, it's still the smartest move."

"That would be safest," Sheriff Forbes admitted reluctantly, sounding uncertain. "Well, we have been stocking up on the vervain supply. But to do something like that, we'll need so much more than we have right now."

"Didn't you say Salvatore was still growing it?" he snapped, using a "so what's the problem?" tone.

"Yes," the sheriff said slowly, sounding as if she were talking through her teeth, like her patience was struggling. "But the distilling process takes too long. There's no way we'll gather up enough of the extract this month. Even then, it'd have to be a one-hit wonder. There's no way we'd be able to lace the tanks more than once. Still, that would give us a chance at weeding them out. It'll take awhile. Maybe by the end of May, we could be ready."

"Great. Just in time for the high school's graduation ceremony," the mayor drawled.

"It's the best we can do."

"Then do better."

The irritated footfalls of his leaving filled Elena with a breath of relief. She listened as the sheriff huffed out a heavy sigh and began muttering under her breath as she too walked away. So they wanted to infect the town's water supply with vervain? Not a bad idea, she thought impartially. But she'd have to talk to—nope, never mind. As long as the right people knew not to go snacking on townsfolk, then it was an excellent idea. Then again, she seriously doubted Damon was really handing over true vervain. He had to be watering the extract down or giving them something else altogether. That man was nowhere near altruistic enough to supply his feeding ground with poison.

"Miss Gilbert?" Bartender Guy whispered, glancing subtly down to where Elena was huddled beneath his bar.

With a harried sigh, the girl dusted fallen spirals out of her face and peeked up at him. "Yes?"

"I promised one of my coworkers that we could switch shifts right about now. So, I'm about to go on waiter duty."

_Damn_, she thought pitifully. "Gotcha," she told him, nodding and gathering up the satin of her dress as she pivoted gracelessly to her knees. "It's loud and clear. I'll just get out of your hair." It was something of a challenge crawling on her knees in a floor-length evening gown with one hand taken up by a sloshing glass of whiskey, plus—the curly locks that managed to escape her knotted crown kept falling into her face, shrouding her eyes. But, miraculously, she managed it. She got out from under the bar, around the pillar that was situated diagonally behind it, and got herself into the narrow corridor beyond that, away from prying eyes of the bustling drawing room, all without removing herself from the shield the open bar provided.

Sadly, before she could end her crawl and get out of this embarrassing position, Elena found her pathway blocked by a pair of dark trousers and shiny oxford shoes. To say she was stopped dead in her tracks would be an appropriate idiom. Then again, there was a dash of "caught with her hand in the cookie jar" feeling to it as she rolled her eyes up the length of those legs in horror-movie style slow motion. It was a nice suit, looked expensive. She recognized it as a Marc Jacobs ensemble from his fall line. Yes, she still had her fashion sense, despite it having dwindled this past year. The man wearing the Jacobs, however, she had never seen before. His ash-blonde hair was cut trim and slicked straight back. His dark eyes sparkled with laughter as he peered down at her, his fair brow raised in surprise.

"Excuse me," she mumbled in a small voice, feeling the burn of embarrassment in her cheeks. Still clutching her flute, Elena sat back on her haunches and began bunching the layered hemline of her dress into the other hand so that she wouldn't trip over it when she attempted getting to her feet. "I was just . . ."

"Testing the marble's imperfections?" he offered, crooking his mouth up at her and dipping his cleft chin.

"Yes," she breathed out, smiling gratefully as he held out a hand. She took it, and he lifted her easily to her feet. Her dress dropped from her hand, righting on its own as she swept her hand over her hairdo, tucking away loose tendrils. Without further ado, the girl eased by him and made her way down the corridor.

"You look upset," he observed in a quiet voice, following her.

Elena came into the dining hall and paused to exchange her flute for one of champagne from a passing waitress's tray. "I am," she told him offhandedly. After taking a long swig, she turned her gaze to roving over the gala's guests around her. Caroline and Matt looked sickeningly sweet together as they sat at one of the white tablecloth-covered café tables that were sprinkled throughout the room. They were sharing a slice of cheesecake. _How sweet_, she thought sarcastically.

The man followed her gaze a second before she turned around, dismissing the scene. "Love trouble?" he asked.

"What makes you say that?" She moved past him again, not waiting for an answer. Not that it mattered, because he kept following her.

"I've only ever seen that look that's on your face this moment from love troubles."

"Well, it's not. At least," she added thoughtfully, "not completely." She found a secluded table in one corner of the room, situated by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that let in streams of silvery moonlight and provided glimpses of the courtyard at an odd angle. When she slipped into one of the dining chairs, putting her back to the room, he joined her. "It's a lot of things, actually."

"Would you like to tell me?" he offered kindly, lacing his hands atop the table.

Elena's brow drew down while her eyes focused on him, her wandering attention settling for a second. "I'm sorry, but _who_ are you?"

The man's mouth tugged into an easy smile. "Noah," he told her, offering a hand for shaking. "Noah Calhoun."

"Right," Elena murmured to herself, eyeing his outstretched hand for a long second before finally giving in with a sigh and clasping it. "I'm Elena."

"It's lovely to meet you, Elena."

She withdrew her hand then, fidgeting in her seat, dropping her eyes. He sounded so sincere. It wasn't until then that she noticed how interested he was, not just behaving politely. She really didn't want to have to deal with flirting right now. She had so much else on her mind, she didn't have the patience or composure to tactfully blow off a middle-aged suitor, especially since she had the feeling that this one would be a persistent man. Choosing her words carefully, Elena licked her lips and set her glass down on the table in front of her, meeting his gaze. "My boyfriend is just being a jerk tonight," she confided in him, shrugging. "It's no big deal. But I appreciate you trying to save me from embarrassing myself further."

"What kind of gentleman would I be if I purposefully disgraced such a beautiful lady while she was so downtrodden?" he teased, lilting his lips at her in a way that made Elena's brow knit curiously. There was something peculiar going on here, something niggling at the edges of her awareness that she couldn't quite grasp.

"I—" she started, intending to thank him for the compliment then politely excuse herself before she had to actually reject him. But she never got that far, because a hand laid itself down on the exposed curve of her shoulder, cutting her off.

She twisted in her chair, looking up to find Caroline standing behind her. "Hey," the blonde girl said quietly, glancing between Elena and the older man nervously. "Can I ask you something?"

"Absolutely," Elena answered without missing a beat, rising from her seat and herding Caroline a few feet away for privacy. "What is it?"

"It just looked like you wanted to be rescued," Caroline admitted with a quick shrug of her shoulders. "Um, Matt and I are going home now. Can I call you later? We'll do breakfast at the Grill tomorrow—you, me, and Bonnie? It's been, like, forever since we've hung out."

"Sure, why not?" Elena retorted, genuinely pleased. It had been too long since they'd all pretty much forgotten about what used to be a biweekly ritual.

She glanced briefly over the other girl's shoulder to find Matt hovering awkwardly in the open archway to the foyer, his hands shoved into his pockets and his eyes on the wall. Elena couldn't help but smile. There was a time when she thought she was in love with Matt. It didn't take very long to realize that, though it was love, it wasn't _that_ sort of love. She hated hurting him when she'd ended it. So, even though it felt weird when her friend and ex got together in the beginning, she was purely happy now that they were working out so well.

"Just so you hear it," she added in a conspiratorial tone. "You look totally radiant tonight."

The surprised smile Caroline broke out into at that tugged at Elena's heartstrings. She hadn't been a very good friend to anyone lately, but especially not to Caroline. She'd need to make up for that.

"Don't I?" the blonde joked, striking a pose. The girls shared laughing grins before Caroline turned and joined Matt, taking him by the arm and leading him out of the room.

Elena watched them go before she took a deep breath and turned back to her waiting admirer. He was looking at her with this perfectly content stare that ran shivers up her spine. Clearing her throat, she moved back to the table and picked up her flute. "Well, I better go find that boyfriend of mine and straighten him out." She gave him one of her endearing smiles then began backing away. "It was nice meeting you, Mister Calhoun." Then she turned and made her lazy escape. _There_, she thought, smiling in satisfaction as she sipped at her drink. _That should do it._

A little while later, Elena wandered into the entrance hall and found herself camped out on the spiral staircase, still nursing her drink. The level of activity in this room was dwindling, a few people milling around here and there, but the majority of the party was going on out on the veranda and in the drawing room. She'd made it out of the dining hall and around three corners of the corridor that sprawled through the mansion before she'd had to sit down. She was growing incredibly sleepy. And dizzy too. As she leaned sideways against the brass of the staircase's railing, she closed one hand around one of the bars and the other around her crystal flute. There was this sickeningly sweet taste lingering on her tongue, like cotton candy. And her mouth was unbearably dry. Her eyes were fluttering, too heavy to hold up.

She assumed it was the alcohol finally getting to her. But . . . she'd never felt this way before. She felt light, like she was floating without gravity, yet her body felt abnormally heavy at the same time. She wanted to dance—just throw her head back, spread her arms wide, and twirl in circles until she had to hold onto the floor to keep from falling off the edge of the world. Either that or she wanted to curl up in bed and pass out. It was an even toss up at this point.

_Something is wrong with us,_ sister wolf whispered, and Elena frowned at the slurring sound of her inner voice.

_I never would have guessed it,_ she sniped back.

_Find Damon._

_No,_ Elena snapped, popping it out sharply and swinging herself upright until her shoulders were squared and her spine was straight. _I don't need him. I'm fine._

_We are not fine,_ her wolf growled. _Something is wrong!_

_Oh, calm down._ "Don't throw a hissy fit," she grumbled, grabbing onto the top of the balustrade and yanking herself to her feet. She almost toppled down the stairs that first second and never would've survived the swaying had she not had a death grip on the rail. Once she was somewhat stable, Elena began ambling down the stairs. "I'm just a little tipsy, is all. Just need to . . . lie down . . . I'll be . . . right as rain."

Just as she made it to the last step of the staircase, Elena stumbled, her foot apparently not cooperating, and almost pitched herself forward. She managed to avoid a face-plant, just barely, but didn't have the mind to keep her glass from sloshing over, spilling champagne across the marble floor of the landing. Leaning heavily on the railing, she blinked, struggling to keep her vision from dancing. She stared down at the spilt liquid, bubbles fizzling out against the dark ivory of the marble, and something unsettling dawned on her.

"Uh-Oh," she tried to cry, but all she could muster was a deadpan whisper. She ran her eyes downward, raising her brow at the glass in her hand. This sinking feeling gripped her, and she upended the flute on instinct, splashing the rest of the fluid out onto the floor in front of her, and then let the glass shatter at her feet, jerking several heads toward her.

Feeling the need to puke, Elena stumbled across the landing, using the wall to keep her from skidding and to support some of her weight, and headed for the hallway she knew had access to a restroom. Oddly, she felt like she should be panicking right now. But she couldn't manage to summon it up. All she could do was wobble into the restroom and pitch herself against the his/hers vanity, face hanging over the sink as she groaned. If only the world would stop spinning for a second, she might've been able to get her bearings back.

"Feeling all right, darling?" a voice resounded through her mind, grating at her skin like spider legs.

Elena struggled to lift her head, and when she did, her eyes found a man's reflection projecting from over her shoulder. A shock of pale blonde hair penetrated the murky blur of her eyesight and she felt this intense urge to scream. "_You_," she croaked, gripping the edge of the countertop. Her knees kept shaking, threatening to spill her onto the floor. "You . . . drugged me . . . you . . . bastard."

"Yes," Noah answered, stroking a hand down the crown of her hair with an easy smile and a soothing tone of voice. "And I am sorry for that. But I had a feeling you wouldn't be as cooperative without it."

"Coop . . ." Without warning, unthinking, Elena flung herself backward, smashing into him as she tried to get out. But the man caught her easily, not before she could make it to the door, but before she would've collapsed onto her face in the burgundy carpeting.

"Whoa, girl," he murmured laughingly. "Take it easy.

"Get off me," she slurred, head falling back, eyes falling shut. She summoned the strength of her wolf and managed to jab an elbow into his stomach, thrusting herself out of his arms. Unfortunately, that sloppy motion had her falling forward from the momentum, and she was too out of it to catch herself in time. She crashed into the vanity, her face bashing against the mirror, cracking glass and smearing blood from her hairline across it. Blood dripped in thick drops into the pristine whiteness of the sink's basin, tainting the porcelain.

Before she could slither to the floor in a crumpled heap, Noah stepped forward and wrapped his arm back around her waist, keeping her legs straight while the rest of her body slumped lifelessly. "Guess you'll need a lesser dose," he mused. "I just had to be on the safe side, you see. You wolves are tricky creatures. I'll get it right this time. But let's get you out of here first."

As delirious noises of protest emanated from the girl's throat, Noah hooked one of her limp arms around his neck and adjusted her so that she was slumped against him, her head on his shoulder. He walked her out of the ladies' powder room and down the corridor.

Passing through the entrance hall, several guests stopped and gave him suspicious glances. Noah offered the few onlookers an easy smile and a look of embarrassment as he passed, rolling his eyes at the mindless girl. "Too much champagne," he explained, then made her stumble like a puppet as he took her out of the mansion and across the long stretch of driveway, which was still clogged up with parking. He hadn't given his keys to the valet, so there was no need to wait. He brought her down to a discreet alcove of the drive and unceremoniously dumped her into the backseat of his crimson-red corvette. Before any stragglers could get the bright idea to step in, Noah hopped into the driver's seat and took off, his taillights fading in the darkness of the night.

As the corvette raced down the highway at 90, Noah glanced into the rearview mirror, languidly soaking up the sight of the blue-gowned girl sprawled across the red-leather of the backseat. She was so beautiful, so perfectly Katherine. _I have you all to myself now, darling. All mine . . ._


	4. Wicked Bliss

**Entry 4: Wicked Bliss**

**Part I**

As the Founder's Day Gala was winding down, Alaric found Damon and Nicholas hanging near the open bar on the deck. Jenna was waiting inside for him to take her home, so he planned to make this quick. The two other vampires he made his way toward did not look in the midst of pleasant moods, and there was just about anything he'd rather be doing than approaching either of them, but he had to take care of this.

"I don't know what her problem is."

"You don't?" Damon challenged. "Seems to me it's the same problem it's always been. What exactly do you expect?" He rolled his eyes at the other one, turned away, and downed the highball glass of vodka he'd ordered.

Nic scowled. "Whose side are you on anyhow?"

"I don't take sides," Damon bit out, turning back to him. "But your whining is pissing me off." The sharp crack of his glass hitting the top of the bar resounded around them in the quieting courtyard. "I've got my own shit to deal with. Or rather: avoid. And hearing you bitch about your nonexistent troubles is stirring my homicidal urges."

Nicholas raised his brow, trying to suppress the amused quirk of his lips and the laughter that threatened to bubble up. "Feeling a little out of sorts, Salvatore?"

Damon grimaced. "Fuck off."

"You do realize that your problems are no better than mine, right?"

The look that bloomed over Damon's features could be considered nothing but dangerous. "Come again?"

"Well," Nicholas paused to let out a soft chuckle, crossing his arms, "I'm at fault for Grace's upset. You're pissed because I'm bitching about it. But I make my own bed and I sleep in it. Which is more than I can say for you," he added.

Damon glowered.

"You act like you're using this girl, as if she's only a means to an end or a distraction for you to wile away the time with until you can be reunited with that infamous lost honey. Yet when you hurt her, you think you've got a right to pout about it."

"I'm not pouting," Damon rebuffed. But he wasn't paying attention anymore. He was looking out into the darkness of surrounding woods, drifting into the sort of contemplation he'd been intently avoiding for as long as he could remember.

A few moments went by in shared silence before Nicholas let out a sharp bark of laughter and clapped his friend on the back. "You're just as screwed as me, Salvatore. If not more," he decided laughingly. "Now, onto more important things: I'm going to need a ride back to the boarding house. Grace took off with my Cadillac." A thoughtful expression then flickered across his face. "I think she really enjoys stranding me. This is the thirteenth time in the last six months."

Damon shrugged the hand off of him as he snatched a bottle of vodka from beneath the bar. "You can walk." Then he turned to stalk off, and only narrowly avoided running right into Alaric.

"Damon," the schoolteacher greeted with a reserved nod.

The other vampire let out a huff of air and tugged at the lapels of his jacket, looking just a tad more than disgruntled. "Not the time, Professor."

"I can see that." Alaric gave him a vaguely judgmental onceover. "But I didn't come for a chat. I just thought you should know that I saw Elena headed for the restroom not too long ago."

Damon arched his brows at that, uncomprehending. "I should care why?"

Alaric slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers and averted his gaze. "Maybe because it looked as if she'd had more than enough to drink," he told him, the disapproval clear in his tone. "I don't know what's going on between you two and I don't care. But I have a feeling you're the reason she's drunk herself into a stupor. So you're the one that needs to take care of her." The teacher paused just long enough to take a step closer, invading the other vampire's personal space as an unsubtle warning. "I'm taking her aunt home now. You'll make sure Elena doesn't get herself into any trouble before she sobers up." Alaric took a step back then and turned to leave.

"Why would it matter to you?" Damon asked in a dangerously careful voice. "You're the one that almost got her killed not too long ago."

Alaric hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. "She isn't expendable," he argued coolly. "Not then and not now."

"Funny," Damon retorted. "Didn't seem like it."

"Well, it is. Keep that in mind."

Damon's expression lightened. "Is that a threat?" he wondered amusedly, tilting his head.

"Yes," Alaric told him with ease before he walked away.

Damon watched him go, musing to himself, "What an interesting development."

"What's that about?" Nic asked from behind him, swirling a tumbler of Jack Daniels in his hand as he sidled up to his friend.

"It seems Elena's unsanctioned troop of protectors just expanded by one."

Nicholas sent him a wry look. "Yeah, okay. Whatever that means."

Damon's mouth thinned into a humorless smile. "Have a nice walk, Nic." Then, without so much as glancing the other one's way, Damon set the bottle of vodka down on the bar and took off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

75 miles away, the red corvette was only just passing through Greensboro, North Carolina. The girl in the backseat had been still since leaving Mystic Falls. But finally, she was beginning to stir. Noah adjusted the rearview mirror, keeping an eye on her as he sped along the interstate, weaving through idling traffic at breakneck MPH.

The world for Elena seemed all too similar to that of a hamster ball trying to survive being jostled around at the bottom of an ocean, infinite tons of pressure closing in on all sides, a senseless whirlwind of sound and sensation. Groaning, she dragged her eyelids up and suffered through an assault of stomach-flipping as the interior of the car tilted off its axis, spinning round and round. She gripped the edges of the leather beneath her—or over her or around her—and struggled to keep from falling off the world. Nothing made any sense. She couldn't think. Couldn't see. Couldn't remember.

"Nice to see you alive," a strange voice swirled around her head.

Elena blindly reached out and found herself hanging over the divider, her chest pressing into the leather edge and feeling like cement was sitting on her upside down. "I don't feel good," she murmured. "I don't feel good."

"You should be flying high."

Elena put a hand to her face. "Huh?"

"It's interesting to see how your system reacts to the GHB."

"The what?" she tried to ask, but her mouth was too thick, too uncoordinated. Feeling all the blood rush to her head, she pushed away from the leathery thing and found herself on her back again. "Where's . . . uh . . . this?"

"Where are you?" Noah suggested helpfully with an amused smile.

Elena bobbed her head once, tangling a hand in her wound-up hair. "Where am I?"

"You and I are on our way to Atlanta."

"Atlanta?" she echoed with a befuddled tinge lacing through her clouded expression. "But I don't want to go to Atlanta," she managed, taking it one word at a time.

"That's too bad, because that's where we're going."

"I wanna go home."

Noah's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror again, his mouth curving. "You can't always get want you want, darling."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Damon trailed the scent of eucalyptus through the entryway, down the corridor, and into the powder room, where the unmistakably rich aroma of lupine blood mingled into it, sending his carefully collected calm right out the window and under a semi. He let the door swing shut as he stood there, frozen.

The first thing he noticed about how wrong this picture was had to be the mirror that hung over the doublewide vanity sinks. The glass was cracked, one blundered spot of impact where a smear of blood clung, and surrounding spider web cracks that branched outward in all directions. A hell of a lot of force had to have been behind that. What broke through the sight was the splotches of red against the bright white of the sink, shaking him out of his reverie, chipping away just the slightest at the numb state that gripped him.

Focusing his vampiric eyesight on the dark burgundy carpet, Damon tracked down the few drops of blood that stained a sporadic trail to the door. His gaze on the ground, he left the lounge behind and made his way through the mansion, feeling surreal. He came out onto the front veranda and down the shallow steps until he was standing in the center of the wraparound driveway. Only a dozen cars remained, not counting the staff lot around the side, out of plain view.

He tried to find that eucalyptus. He stood there in the dark, eyes searching slowly across the landscape of shadows, and he strained for her scent. But it was gone. The wind was too strong. It mingled the base fragrance of every living being that had gone through here tonight and swept them all away. He kept looking, standing there, concentrating. He kept looking, even though he knew it was pointless.

There was nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inside, Bonnie and Jeremy were sitting side by side on an antique bench, pushed against the wall in the dining hall. They'd been there for the last two hours, talking about everything and nothing, holding hands, waiting to see if that sensation of electricity at the contact of their skin would fade. It hadn't yet.

"Can I tell you something?" she asked, finally gathering the courage.

Jeremy twisted to face her, his attention piquing from the daze he'd been floating in. "Of course."

"You have to promise me, though, that you're not going to tell Elena, no matter what."

Jeremy's brow knitted. "Bonnie . . ."

"Please, Jer." She looked into his eyes and showed him how serious she was. "You have to promise."

"Okay then," he said hesitantly, looking as if she were acting ridiculous. "Fine, I won't tell Elena."

Bonnie let out a quiet breath of air and leaned against the wall, pulling her hand out of his so she could wrap her arm around her midsection. "I did something . . . I set something into motion. And at the time, I was sure that it was the right thing. But now—now that it's too late to change my mind—I can't stop thinking that maybe I've made a horrible mistake. I mean, what if she never forgives me? What if something goes wrong and—well, what if something has already gone wrong? Just by me doing . . . well, what I did."

"Bonnie," Jeremy cut in. "You're freaking me out. Just tell me."

The witch nodded, pressing her lips into a thin line. She reached out, took his hands in hers, and was in the midst of floundering for the best words to use when a murky premonition crashed into her like a rogue wave, sending her toppling onto the floor and gasping for air.

"Crap!" Jeremy cursed, his eyes widening with panic as he leapt to catch her. "What the hell just happened?"

"Elena," she gasped out, clinging to him even as she jumped shakily to her feet and started for the door, dragging him with her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nicholas was sipping at his Samuel Adams when he saw the little wolf's best friend scrambling through the entrance hall like the devil was at her heels, yanking the brother along with her. He didn't need Grace's witchy wiles to know that something was wrong. Not that he really had any investment in the goings-on of these townsfolk. But since Grace was so interested in the little wolf and co., he figured he should check it out. So that's exactly what he did, following the neophyte diviner and her baby beau out into the driveway, where they joined a motionless Damon.

"Well, this can't be good."

"She's gone," Damon told them without taking his eyes off the darkness that stretched ahead of them.

"I know," Bonnie whispered, growing stoic.

"What? Who? What's going on?" Jeremy demanded, tugging at their clasped hands.

"Elena's been taken," she said. Her voice was too thin, too calm to be genuine.

Damon perked at that, glancing toward her with a creasing brow. "You're sure?"

Bonnie nodded, swallowing past the lump in her throat and clutching tighter at Jeremy's hand. Jagged images of what she'd predicted flashed by her mind's eye at super speed. "But I can't see where they are. It's only a room, like a hotel suite. Nothing I recognize."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Jeremy demanded through gritted teeth. "Elena's been taken. Like kidnapped? _Again_?"

"Salvatore," Nicholas called, coming up to the other vampire with his hands in his pocket. "I think I know who has her." The words weren't even out of his mouth before Nic found himself pinned to the stone of the mansion, Damon's hands fisted in the lapels of his suit, nearly dragging him off his feet. "Now, now, no need for that."

"Tell me," Damon ordered. The "or die" part was left unspoken, but crystal clear in his tone. "_Now_, Nicholas."

"Did you know Calhoun was in town?" Nic asked, raising his fair brows, waiting patiently for Damon to release him.

"Calhoun?"

"Noah Calhoun," Nicholas explained. "I don't know if you've ever met him. But I have, a long time ago. Turns out, you aren't the only one with stories of Lady Pierce."

Damon's insides went cold. "This Noah, he knew Katherine?"

"Yep," Nic answered. "In fact, he was here in Mystic Falls when her coven was torn apart. He was one of the few that got away."

"Guys," Bonnie called angrily. "We don't have time for this."

"Don't you get it?" Damon snapped, rounding on her.

Nicholas landed back on his feet and straightened, dusting off his suit, unbothered. "What was it that drew Damon and Stefan to Elena in the first place? Her winning personality?" he quipped. "Or was it her resemblance to the fair maiden, Katherine Pierce?"

"Don't remind me," she drawled, feeling snide and a bit bitter.

"Noah Calhoun regaled me with tales of the good ol' times last we met. In particular, he couldn't quite resist waxing on about the enigmatic mistress of his past." He paused to shoot her a smirk. "It's been awhile, but I'm betting Calhoun still carries himself a pretty big torch. Add it all up for yourself, lovely. I'm sure you can manage."

"Damn it," Bonnie hissed tiredly, rubbing a hand across her face.

Jeremy's face was still a picture of confusion. "Who's Katherine?"

Bonnie looked up at him in surprise. "Elena never told you?"

"What are you doing?" Damon called suddenly, startling them all. They turned, following his gaze to find Tyler Lockwood crouched in an alcove nearby. Damon blurred, appearing before him. "_What_ are you doing?"

Tyler looked up, lifting his hand from where it was laid against the pavement. "Her blood," he said strangely. His normally dark brown eyes had taken on a preternatural sheen of golden. "It smells wrong. Like . . ."

"Like she's drugged?" Damon guessed.

An angry cast overwhelmed Tyler's rigid features. "Yeah," he said, sounding indignantly irritated by that notion.

Damon turned away from the kid, looking out into the distance again. "I figured. That's the only way she'd let herself be taken out of here so quietly. She'd have put up a fight."

"Is she okay?" Jeremy whispered, asking Bonnie.

The young witch shook her head. "I don't think so. At least, she's not going to be. But she's alive. And she's in trouble. That's about all I can tell."

"Can't you find her?" Damon asked—demanded—but changed his mind at the look that crossed her face. "Never mind then. We should get Grace."

Nicholas stepped in at that. "She returned to the boarding house."

"Then that's where we're going."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

400 miles away, it was almost 4:30 a.m. by the time the red corvette slid into a narrow parking space within the enclosed lot. The streetlamp on the curb cast a sickly orange glow through the car park. Around now, it was pretty much deserted. The lot was squeezed into an alcove between the three inner sides of the brick building around them, so the occasional trafficking along the strip didn't matter.

"Up and at 'em," Noah quipped jovially, rousing the girl again.

"Stop," Elena groaned, swatting at his arms as he took her by the shoulders and brought her upright. Her head lolled backward, eyes fluttering halfway open. "Stop it."

"Oh, come on now. Don't be that way, darling." Noah hooked an arm around her waist and slid her out of the backseat, leaning her against the side of the corvette as he shut the doors and locked up. "You don't want to stay out here in the car all night, do you?"

"No," she murmured deliriously, nodding her head. "But I don't feel so good."

When she started sliding sideways across the chrome, he swooped in and caught her before she could sprawl on the cement, chuckling to himself as she went on mumbling incoherently. "That's all right, beautiful. But there are all sorts of unsavory characters lurking out here, ready and able to take advantage of a pretty little thing like you. We'll get you inside and you'll feel much better."

"Okay . . ." she sighed, letting her head fall to his shoulder as he took her by the waist and arm then led her around onto the street, stumbling every step in her heels, twisting her ankles this way and that.

"_Ah_, it's so good to be back. You have no idea how much I've missed this place," Noah mused, bringing her up under the canopy that hung over one of the front entrances to the building. In bright red neon lettering, the sign scrawled across the header of the canopy displayed the words _Wicked Bliss_.

A feeling of dread swept over Elena, a blaring alarm inside her that urged her to _not_ go in there. "I don't wanna," she mumbled into his dress jacket. "I . . . I . . . I wanna go home."

Noah gave her a weary sigh that suggested his patience was wearing thin. "We went through this, darling. You don't want to go home. You want to stay with me. Lord, how much trouble it is to be without my compulsion," he added under his breath to himself.

"Stay with you?" she mumbled, moving her head to frown up at him through bleary eyes. "Who are _you_?"

"Noah," he said with a smile, brushing his knuckles down her cheek, dusting away curls gone astray. "You belong to me now, darling."

"Huh?"

He pressed his mouth to the layer of fallen locks that covered her ear. "_Mine_."

Elena tried to draw away from him as her face scrunched. "No . . . I'm not."

"Yes. You are. You'll see."

"But—"

"Enough of that now," he ordered brusquely, clasping a hand over her mouth to quiet her and tugging her into his side as they moved through the door into the small entryway, which was shrouded from all sides with velvet drapes, a darkening shade of crimson. The only piece of anything in the room was the host's cherrywood podium, situated near an arched opening in the drapes. Beyond, a long and wide corridor of red-painted walls stretched into the distance. Illumination was a mixture of laser lights and candelabrums.

"Oh," Elena breathed out in dizzied awe. She leaned forward, swaying as she took in her strange world with disproportionate wonder. "Wow. You can _see_ the glitter." She collapsed again, and he caught her when she fell back against him, limp in his arms. Even still, her eyes roved the velvet walls around her, reaching a clumsy hand out toward them. She didn't realize there were at least five feet between her fingertips and the fabric.

The host gave Noah an odd look, but otherwise said nothing about his tripping companion. Instead, the pale uniformed one kept behind his podium and tapped his long fingernails across the guestbook laid before him. "Have business here, sir?"

"There should be a reservation for a private room. Under Calhoun," Noah said, sweeping Elena off of her feet after tiring of her unbalanced squirming.

As the host searched his book, Elena began itching at her ears, trying to get that insufferable electronica music out of it, the stuff that floated in from the speakers that were screwed into the top of the corners of the tiny room. "Stop," she pleaded, nuzzling her head desperately against Noah's shoulder and rubbing at her face and hair with her hands.

"Right then, Mister Calhoun." The host looked up, his hands laced, his face stoic. "Mister Sinclair asked to see you when you arrived."

"Later." Noah waved him off. "Once we've gotten settled."

The host looked as if that wasn't such a good idea, but again, he kept quiet. "This way then," he said, gesturing toward the opening beyond him. He turned and disappeared, leaving Noah to follow, still carrying a touched Elena.

"Spiders," she murmured, staring at the red walls and the sheer curtains that were draped over door-less doorways that swished past her. Little black spiders scattered, crawling so fast she couldn't see them over the corridor, all around her. They'd probably start falling from above soon. So small, those little things, how would she ever get them off? She didn't want them crawling on her. She didn't want them to touch her. She just wanted to go home. "I wanna go home."

"Is that all you know how to say?" Noah quipped, turning a corner and following the host into a winder stairwell. He was led to a pristinely white door that was marked with the number eleven in brass.

After unlocking it and pushing the door to swing wide open, the host turned back to Noah and handed him the solitary keycard. "Mister Sinclair—"

"Yes, yes, I know." Noah hustled the girl in his arms inside and kicked the door shut behind him, pausing to examine their quarters. Midnight-blue fabric stapled to onyx walls, night sky illustrated vaulted ceiling, crimson shoji dividers sprinkled around with the _Wicked Bliss_ logo, lush indigo carpeting, king-sized rounded bed with a wrought-iron headboard screwed into the wall and burgundy satin bedding, matching candelabrums in every corner, sleek UV light fixtures set to the ceiling, a cherrywood armoire, drink cart, and a _Wicked Bliss_ privacy screen blocking the opening for the washroom. "Not bad," he murmured, setting Elena on her feet. "Not bad at all."

"Oh," she groaned, falling against the armoire and covering her face with her hands.

Noah shook his head at her and made his way toward the drink cart, shrugging out of his jacket and undoing his tie as he went. "That last dose of X is going to take forever to wear off if all you do is lie around here moaning," he groused, pouring himself a tumbler of scotch. As he sipped at it, he wandered over to one of the nightstands that framed the bed and flicked on the stereo outlet, switching on access to the main room's plays from the speakers jacked into the wall by the door. The room filled with the thumping sounds of Pitbull and Enrique Iglesias's new techno song, _I Like It_.

Elena felt the beat of the overwhelming melody thrum through her body, picking up her heart rate. She shifted against the armoire, licking her lips. She was scared to leave the safety of the tangible wood behind her, knowing the world would try to upend her again. But her body was already beginning to vibrate with the noise around her. It picked at her flesh, flowing with the life that coursed through her bloodstream, strumming in time with her pulse. She couldn't help it. She worried that she wouldn't be able to find her way back to the reliable haven she'd just found. But, ultimately, it couldn't make a difference.

She pushed away from the armoire, landing as unstable as Jell-O on her feet in the middle of the room—or at least out of touching distance from the wood. Biting on her bottom lip, she shut her eyes to block out the topsy-turvy room around her and let her head fall back, taking the astronomical weight of it off of her neck. Her hips moved in wavy circles. Her shoulders shook back and forth, bringing the rest of her body with them. Her feet turned around and around, her soles spinning across the carpet like she was dancing on caterpillars.

If there were any spiders here, she couldn't see them. No, all she could see were the flashing lights that scattered across the inside of her eyelids, the bouncing colors that faded in and out with her every clumsy twirl, stinging her retinas. She wavered back and forth, like trying to stay aloft while tiptoeing across a narrow ledge, yet never let that flailing interrupt her nonsensical rhythm. She'd fall off eventually, and with the thready beat pumping through her, she didn't even care anymore.

Funnily enough, though, when she did go down, it was because the layers of her dress tangled up her feet and sent her flying. Still, she rolled onto her back on the floor and kept moving to the music, head bouncing from side to side, hips wiggling, arms going above her head, toes pointing, shoulders rolling.

'"_Don't stop, baby . . . Don't stop, baby . . . Just keep on shaking along . . . I won't stop, baby . . . won't stop, baby . . . until you get enough._"'

Noah watched her with glistening eyes full of insidious intention. But he wasn't a part of her world in the moment. So she noticed nothing. Her delirious motions outlasted the music itself as he closed off the speakers, leaving them in a deafening silence.

"No. Oh, oh . . . oh, oh, oh," she murmured to herself, shaking her head as her spine arched up off of the carpet and her knees bent, hands dancing across the floor and toes wiggling. "Don't stop, baby. _Baby_, I like it, oh. Yes, I like it. Da, da, da . . . fiesta . . . forever . . . la, la, la . . . oh yes, I like it."

"All right. That's enough, Cascada." Noah bent down and scooped her up, bringing her onto her feet and steadying her, his hands heavy upon her shoulders. Her twisting lulled, but lingered infinitesimally as he drew his arms around her, picking fastidiously at the haggard chignon that still bound the majority of her hair up.

When Elena at long last reopened her eyes, they landed immediately on his face, bringing her down from Cloud 9. She kinked her eyebrows and pursed her lips, squinting at him. "Who are you again?"

"Noah."

"Hi Noah," she crooned, smiling at herself, making him laugh. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to take your hair down without leaving it a crow's nest," he replied, eyes on his work. He forced her head down a second later for better access.

"Okay."

"Just hold still. I'm almost finished."

"Okay."

"There," he said, a second before the rest of her dark mane cascaded free, falling in curly layers around her shoulders. Elena shook her head with sudden jerks, whimpering at the feel of bugs dotting her bare arms and back. "Stay here," he told her sternly, earning a disinterested nod of her head as he retreated behind the washroom's screen. When he came back, he had a pair of glinting scissors within his grip.

Elena's eyes widened and she took an unsteady step backward. "Not my hair!"

"What?" Noah frowned, a second before comprehension hit him. "Oh. No, it's not that. Just settle down."

"Nah-Uh," she snapped, throwing her arms up over her long locks. "Get away from me."

With an impatient sigh of breath, Noah blurred. Elena blinked at the spot he'd once been, swaying on her feet, while he came up behind her and slipped two fingers beneath one of the satin straps of her sapphire evening gown. With two deft snips of the scissors to her crisscross halter, he destroyed the dress's support system. The slippery material dropped off of her, pooling around her cerulean heels and leaving the girl completely bare. Noah raised an eyebrow, surprised at her lack of undergarments. And here he'd been thinking she had nothing in common with Katherine.

Shivers skittered through Elena. She hunched her shoulders, reaching out for support. He took her outstretched arm by the elbow and kept her upright while he bent at the knee and snatched away her strappy shoes.

When he rose again, his nose was scrunched with distaste. "You need to be bathed, darling."

"Huh?" she asked, tipping her head to the side at him as her arms subconsciously came around herself.

Noah leaned into the exposed curve of her neck as he led her into the washroom. "I can't properly enjoy you until that vexation Salvatore's scent is washed away."

"Salvatore?" she echoed in an odd voice, her expression growing distant as she delved into the meaning attached to the name. "Damon got mad," she admitted. "He was really rough, never seen him that way before." She turned to look up at Noah as he guided her down to the edge of the marble whirlpool bathtub so he could dip in and switch on the faucets. "There was no time." She scrunched up her nose. "I'm still all sticky."

"Yes," he agreed with displeasure. "You are."

"You think he loves her more?" she asked, placing a hand on his bent-over back to keep from falling into the empty tub. "It's always all about her, even when it seems like it's about me. You think she's better? I don't see why, if we look the same. She doesn't sound like a very nice person at all. But he loves her more. They both do, even if Stefan doesn't know it. Deep down, it's still always all about her." She quieted for a moment as he pulled upright, sending her a wry look, which she shook her head at and huffed. "I just don't get it."

"Neither do I, darling. Neither do I," he admitted with a sigh, tugging her hair up into a sloppy clip. Then he swept her up and deposited her swiftly into the rapidly filling pool. "It's not something words can explain. It just _is_."

"She's not better than me," she stated with an obstinate tilt to her chin. She kinked her eyebrows at him, daring him to say differently. "She's _not_."

Noah rested his forearms on the border of the tub and gave her a long look, studying her from the inside out. "Maybe," he conceded. "Maybe not."

"What do you know," she groused, sinking until she was fully ensconced in bubbly water. Her hazy gaze drifted away from him, roaming down herself, around the room, and something like apprehension flickered through her eyes, breaking apart the senseless clouds. "I don't like this," she said quietly, slowly, carefully. "I shouldn't be here. I don't think . . . No. I want to go home."

"Good," he said to himself. "It shouldn't be long now."

But Elena wasn't listening. She was too busy shaking her head, frowning at his hand as he stirred his fingers evanescently through the bubbling water near her hip. This was wrong, she realized. What was going on? Why was she here?

Noah took ahold of a sea-foam sponge and dunked it into the boiling water, soaking it before he traced the foam up the line of her leg, dipping between her thighs. With his other hand, he reached across the tub, skimming her submerged chest as he went for the supply of mini bottles of soap and shampoo that lined the marble's border. He lathered the sponge with Dark Rose body wash and proceeded to languorously scrub every last remnant of the Salvatore brothers off of her.

All the while, Elena squirmed, struggling to clear the fog, still unable to quite grasp why she should protest. It was nice, after all. So why was a deep-seated part of her screaming to get away?

"Did you know that I loved her first?" he asked, growing thoughtful as he worked the sponge over her divine body. "I was there, waiting, trying to be the gentleman she deserved. I didn't realize until it was far too late what a self-centered little shrew she was."

Elena looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, her pupils like saucers and her lids hooded. "You're talking about the Other Me, aren't you?"

"Aren't we always?" he countered, stroking the sponge across her chest, admiring the way her nipples hardened at his ministrations. He noted the way her fingertips bit into the marble around her with discomfort, and he wished this could be different. He could have tried to woo her, opted out of hanging in the background, biding his time. But it would have been pointless. She was already enamored with the Salvatores by the time Noah found her. And there was no way he was about to play the patsy a second time around. She could despise him all she liked. It wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. He'd have what he wanted, what he deserved, and she'd take it one way or the other.

Noah's eyes moved away from her face, roving down the slender stretch of her neck, the subtle ridges of her collarbone, the supple expanse of her chest, across the soft valley of her sternum, down to the honey-hued patch of hair between her thighs. Her legs were smooth, dark, and more sculptured than he'd have thought. The muscles in her thighs were only just discernable as impressive, and deceptively so, taking into account the preternatural strength of her. Her toes were painted a scarlet shade of red, and looking at them made his mouth quirk.

He could compare their faces, their hair, their scents, their voices . . . but not this. She'd never been laid bare for him this way. That ancient whore spread her legs for half of the New World, those worthless Salvatore brothers being only the last few in a long line of comers. But _he_ wasn't ever good enough for her. He, Noah Alexander Calhoun, the man that guarded her wellbeing for over half a decade, who granted every single wish she'd ever asked of him, begging for nothing in return. And now, all these years later, this little doppelganger had cursed him all over again. He had finally gotten over that damnable Katherine Pierce, and then along came this one, her flawless mirror image. Now he was right back where he started, pitifully obsessed. He could kill her for this. But he wouldn't. Not yet, at least.

He took Elena because she resembled Katherine. He wanted to own her in a way that he would have never been able to own Katherine. This was his perfect chance, he'd assumed. Better yet, he would get to take her away from the Salvatores, the way they took Katherine away from him all those many years ago. He wanted to punish them, all of them, but _her _the most. For what she'd done to him. For what she'd turned him into, once again. He didn't care if she was Katherine or not. That wasn't important. This was his chance.

The intensity of this one coming into her own as a werewolf was just the golden icing on the mouthwatering devil's food cake that had been offered to him. He'd heard the rumors, the tales of vampires losing themselves in the addiction to that rare crimson juice of hers. But he didn't care. That wouldn't happen to him. The way he figured it, if his sanity survived a devotion to that wench all these years, then it could withstand whatever this one had in store for him.

"I feel sick," she moaned, curling into a ball, hedging away from his hands that wanted to be on her. "Please. I feel sick."

"Suck it up," he retorted with a deep sigh, dropping the sponge onto the marble.

"I wanna go home," she mumbled. And when his hand landed on her collarbone, she ripped herself away from his touch, sinking violently underwater.

"That's enough," he growled, brusquely dragging her out from under. She came up coughing and let out a little yelp.

Noah rose to his feet and bent over, shutting off the faucet then grabbing her by the waist and lifting her from the water. He set her down a second later and she nearly slipped on the wet ceramic beneath her feet, probably bashing her head on any one of the marble surfaces filling the room. He grabbed a fluffy bath towel and whipped it around her with a sharp flick of his wrists, toweling her off in a rush.

"I don't . . ." Elena's brow scrunched up almost to the point it was painful. Why couldn't she think? She was so busy struggling through the fog her head had turned into that she didn't notice what was going on around her. This made her completely pliable as he pulled her back into the room, took down her hair, and dressed her in an old-fashioned ivory chemise, tying the off-the-shoulder sleeves tight and cinching both her bust and waist with an intricately embroidered blood-red corset. He was on his knees, slipping a fishnet petticoat up under the flimsy fabric of the chemise and clasping it around her hips by the time Elena was shaken from her roundabout thoughts.

When he came back up onto his feet, Noah tunneled his hands through her curly hair, letting it down only to corral it back from her face with a small butterfly pin. "Perfect," he told her breathily, taking a step back to admire the end result. She was an almost flawless illusion.

Frowning in bewilderment, Elena ducked her head to look down at herself. "What? I don't get it," she slurred. "What?"

Noah closed the distance between them and circled her dainty wrist with his hand, catching her before she could topple over. He led her over to the bed and she followed blindly, still frowning down at herself, trying to figure out why this bothered her so much. It was better than before, when she was shivering and defenseless and completely open. But it still wasn't good. And anyways, that thing around her body was strangling her. When had she gotten so big? She felt like a dog chained in a collar two sizes too small.

"Lie down, darling."

Elena looked from Noah to the bed and something grounding slithered through her, something she didn't like, not at all. "I don't want to."

"Aren't you tired?"

". . . I guess . . ."

"Then lie down." He bent and smoothed his other hand along the surface of the mattress. "It's so soft. Here, come see for yourself, if you want."

Swallowing uncomfortably, Elena hedged around him and lowered herself down to the bed. The second she collided with the dreamy cloud beneath her, the fatigue that had been fraying her around the edges pronounced itself, sweeping her under. Her eyes fluttered as she fell down, shifting onto her side and burrowing in.

Noah left her there, going for the armoire again. He pulled out a small duffel bag and brought it over to the nightstand, dropping onto one knee as he dug into it and finally pulled out a pair of leather bondage cuffs. Elena watched him come. She lay still, frowning, fumbling to make sense of the sudden rush of riot inside her as he took her wrist and wrapped the leather strap around it, cutting off her circulation. When the soft clink of the steel buckle resounded through her ears, a part of her exploded. It was different from the piece around her sternum, different and bad, very bad. She couldn't stand it. She had to get out! When he reached for her other wrist, Elena freaked.

Leaping up, she flung herself off the other side of the bed and scrambled to her feet, not knowing _why_ just knowing she _couldn't_. But it didn't matter, because he wouldn't let her get away. His immovable arm hooked around her throat before she was even completely on her feet again, keeping her still. He closed off her airway and let the deadweight of her aid him when her knees gave out. She clawed at his grip, his arm, digging weakly into the corded muscle there. It took longer than he'd have thought for her to lose consciousness. Normally, ten seconds of pressure on the carotid artery would have taken care of it. But she was a resilient little thing.

Once she was limp again, he laid her down across the bed and finished buckling the cuffs around each of her wrists, fastening as tightly as possible to keep her from squirming out of them. Then he took the reinforced steel chain that linked the two cuffs and hooked it to the iron of the headboard, securing that link with a padlock.

Noah came to his feet, kicked the duffel bag under the bed, and backed away. She wriggled instinctively, still unaware but testing at her restraints nonetheless as the unhappy noises coming from her throat grew stronger—more certain, more intense. It wouldn't be long now until she was in her right mind. And then the fun could begin.

At that thought, the vampire's increasing anticipation tripled. He was a _very_ patient man. Thankfully, though, there wasn't much longer to wait.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back in Mystic Falls, the Salvatore Boarding House was sizzling with pent-up energy as the sun began to rise in the lightening sky. Damon had been out all night, canvassing the town along with Nicholas and Alaric, searching. The chance had been slim to begin with, the chance that this Noah guy was a complete idiot and hadn't blown town the second he had his hands on Elena. Damon had known it was a waste of time when he'd barked out the command and stormed out. But it was damn well better than sitting on his hands playing peanut gallery as the witches proved how positively _useless_ they both were.

If Bonnie had known nothing, Grace had known it all, and neither had made a bit of difference. Even now, while Damon paced through the house, stewing in anger and impatience, the witches struggled to recast the locator's spell they'd failed to work five times over by now. It was supposed to conjure up Elena's whereabouts on the map they had spread out in the center of the pentagram of candles on the parlor floor—_supposed to_ being the operative wording in that statement. So far, all their talk had amounted to nothing but coaxing Damon even closer to that dangerous precipice of helpless rage.

Grace's claims were that it was the werewolf aspect that had thrown a wrench into the game plan, mucking up the delicate workings of the spell's magic. It wasn't her fault, she reiterated for him in a voice thin with aggravation and exhaustion. Elena herself was disrupting the witch's magic. They couldn't track her because outside magic was unreliable on lupines. They're immune to most forms of it for some unknown reason. Why she couldn't have mentioned that earlier—like, say _before_ they'd wasted so much precious time—was momentarily beyond his grasp.

If they couldn't track Elena, though, then they could track Calhoun. Logically speaking, that is. Only problem with that idea? As they'd needed a physical belonging of Elena's to even attempt the locator's spell for her, the same went for Calhoun. Where were they supposed to find something that belonged to him? Find out where he'd been staying. See if he happened to leave anything behind in his rush to sweep away with somebody else's girl. Should be simple, right? But nope, it couldn't be that easy. Calhoun was one of the odd few of their kind that was thoroughly meticulous. So even though they'd found the room at the Mystic Motel he'd been staying at, nothing left behind meant no locator's spell. Why Damon had thought for a second that that would actually work, who the hell knew. It couldn't ever be that easy. Otherwise, he wouldn't be pacing a 20ft line back and forth across the corridor, wearing tread marks into the wood, now would he? Hell, no. He'd be out there, tearing this Calhoun guy's throat out.

Jesus, the groveling he'd have to do once he got Elena back. And he _would_ get her back—safe and sound, untouched, and still pissed at him for freaking out on her last night. Meanwhile, Calhoun's corpse would be rotting in the ground—the worthless son of a bitch. All the things he was going to do to that bastard when he caught up with him ran through Damon's mind at a manic speed, feeding his rising temper, that son of bitch. How dare he? And how the hell did Damon let this happen, anyway?

"Damn it," he hissed, halting at the end of the dim corridor and raking a rough hand through his hair. He stilled for a long moment, expelling a rush of air as he fought to quell the nearing explosion. It wouldn't do any good to take his frustration out now. No, he needed to save that for when he got Calhoun in his sights. "I need a drink."

In the parlor, Grace was crouched beside her makeshift altar, clearing up the mess they'd scattered about. Nicholas was lounging across a chaise with a drink in his hand. While Bonnie and Jeremy sat staring into the fire, fretting in silence. When Damon stomped in, Grace looked up at him, slapping her hands on her thighs. "I've got a new idea."

"Spit it out then," he snarled, sloshing bourbon from the crystal decanter into a glass and snatching it up to down in one violent gulp.

"Well, it's not exactly Machiavellian," she began warily, rising to her feet. "But it just might do."

"Grace," Nicholas put in from his spot in the corner. "Now's no time to play coy with the man, love."

The redhead took one glance at the tremblingly rigid set of Damon's shoulders as he kept his back to her and knew most certainly that Nico was right. She just wasn't sure how to word it. She didn't want to get anyone hurt . . . at least, not anyone that didn't deserve a good beating. The guilt was still gnawing at her about the pivotal part she played in that incident earlier between Elena and Damon. That made her hesitant to take any action, whatsoever. It had her second-guessing herself. Still, they were out of any better options. So they had no time for her insecurity.

"Well?"

"Right," she said, taking in a deep breath. "I could try something else, something that just might work around the lupine's wards. But it's a bit risky."

"Risky?" Damon echoed, turning toward her. "Risky?"

"Oh, don't look at me like that. I just meant . . . well . . ."

Damon's jaw clenched. "Let me be perfectly clear," he told her, taking a measured step her way, causing her spine to stiffen nervously. "I _don't care_ _how_ you do it," he ground out through gritted teeth, then whirled and thrust the crystal tumbler away with all his strength, shattering it against the wall across the room. "Just _fucking find her_."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Down in Baton Rouge, Stefan was only just drifting into awareness when he felt the cool press of a palm ghost across his cheek, a gentle caress that was so unexpected it startled him out of the darkness.

The dull tug of pain from the rusty hooks was absent from his shoulder blades. The solid surface of smoothed rock blanketed beneath him, grounding him. He was no longer hanging, he realized with some effort for a sliver of cognitive reasoning. The smoothed rock was an altar, just long enough to accommodate his height, just wide enough to leave his arms hanging off the edges—another method of keeping so much as an infinitesimal amount of comfort from his reach. Still, it was better than being suspended by those meat hooks. Even through the cold press of the rock against his ragged body, the merciless hardness of the altar.

The fresh pair of sweatpants he was wearing felt like sandpaper against his legs and the line of his waist. His body was clean, free of the coated layers of grime and blood that plagued him by the end of the necromancer's every visit. The logical part of his self still existed, though it was shut away where the soul-stealer couldn't dement it. And that part of him knew that when the mess got to be too much, she would take control of his body once again and have him shower and rest. She liked having a clean slate to start all over again with. But he couldn't remember those times. She didn't want him to feel like he'd had even those reprieves. In fact, his memory was no longer a stream of consciousness. Instead, it was a blurred reel of uneven splices.

The most clear of all the jagged pieces, though, were the ones that would haunt him. The ones that depicted his breaking points, when he'd given in, when he'd lost himself in the bloodlust—due to the necromancer's games, her desire, her will. That was how he could be certain that he hadn't truly lost his sanity. It was her touch on his mind that made him seem disturbed. Not that that made much of a difference anymore.

The days began bleeding into one another not long after he got here, so he couldn't tell himself how much time had passed. It was as if the outside world no longer existed. All that was real for him was this cavernous cell, this underground dungeon, this grayed cement box. He'd avoided thinking of his life. He'd kept strictly away from straying thoughts of Elena, or Damon, or Lexi, or any of the others. He didn't want the sorceress to use them. He didn't want her to _touch_ them, which was why it radiated such a sharp pang through him when he lifted his eyes open to see the breathtaking vision of his love standing over him.

"Elena," he rasped, feeling the throttle of panic and devastation ripple through him. "No. No. You can't be here."

"Shh," she cooed, running her cool palm down the side of his face. "Stefan, shh . . . It's alright."

He tried to summon energy—enough to move his body, enough to sit up, enough to protect her—but he just couldn't. There was nothing left in him. His eyes fell closed. Her touch was like a rush of fresh air finally finding its way into this stale prison. He couldn't help but revel in it, turning his cheek into her palm, soaking up the heavenly scent of warm vanilla and cinnamon. It was such a rush of relief—even through the worry and the fear—that it almost made him want to cry. But that didn't matter. "You can't be here. Go," he pleaded. "Please. You can't—"

"Stefan," she cut him off. Her voice was soft, firm, and free of concern. As if she were talking a child down from a nightmare, no real worry at all. "It's alright, Stefan. I'm here now. Don't be afraid."

"Elena . . ." It was a struggle, but he managed to reopen his eyes. She was leaning over him, her waist pressing into the edge of the stone, her head tilted to the side as she gazed down at him. Layers of glossy ringlets flowed over her shoulders, the tips brushing across the exposure of his abdomen. The dark lashes of her eyes fluttered, her soothing gaze hooded. The slight curve of her mouth was lazy, her lips coated with a deep shade of crimson against the backdrop of her dark caramel complexion. God, it had been so long since he'd seen her . . . since he'd gotten to truly look at her . . . to patiently and intently take in the sight of her as she deserved, as she was worthy, as he wanted to. Until this moment, he hadn't realized just how long he'd gone without her. "I never should have left you."

She gave him a small smile, stroking her fingers gently through his short waves of hair. "Hm, that's sure nice to hear," she murmured. "But I don't want you to do that, baby. Don't think about things like that. It won't do you any good."

Stefan's brow began to slowly furrow. Looking at her clearly, feeling the silky pad of her thumb skim across the seam of his mouth, he began to really think. Something wasn't right here. Something about her—this—was _off_ somehow. What was she doing here? How was she here? Where was Skyler? Then it clicked, and Stefan grew stiff. "It's not possible," he whispered, leaning his face away from her soothing touch. "You're not real."

At that, she lowered herself onto her knees, bringing them almost level. She ran her fingers through his hair again, meticulously pushing back the unruly locks that fell over his forehead, lank with sweat. When she was satisfied, she gave a quiet sigh and danced her hand down to where his rested limply on the stone altar. She took his in her own and brought it to her chest, laying his palm above her heart so that he could feel the rhythmic beat of it pounding. "I'm as real as you, my sweet Stefan."

"You're not Elena," he told her. His attention wasn't on the soft thumping of her heartbeat, but rather the imperceptible pucker of scar tissue that marred the inside of her left wrist. He recognized that scar. No matter how much time had passed since he'd last seen it. "Katherine."

She simply smiled, setting his hand back down on the altar so she could draw her own across his chest. "You have to give her what she wants, Stefan. You have to let her break you," she whispered into his ear. "It's the only way to end this." She rose a bit then, leaning over him to look him in the eye. They were so close that he could feel the whisper of her breath across his neck. "Then we can be together."

Stefan felt a piece of his heart break as he looked at her. In a way, that in and of itself shocked him. He hadn't expected to care one way or the other. But he did, because he knew what this meant. He _understood_.

Steeling himself, Stefan pushed away that rush of emotion and locked it up from reach. "You're just an illusion," he insisted softly. "You're not real."

Katherine gave him a disappointed little sigh before she pulled away, turning her back on him and sauntering away. He watched the vision of her fade like a whorl of mist scattered by the wind. What he found in her absence was Lexi's daughter, who hovered in the darkened entryway. Her skirts swayed from side to side like a bell, her hair hanging in snakelike ropes around her waist, her shiny eyes quiet and malevolent. But she didn't matter to him, not in that moment. All he could think of was what this meant.

Katherine wasn't in the tomb . . . she was dead.

The sorceress held control over all of the dead, corpses and lost souls and even vampires. But her parlor tricks only ever worked if the image she was trying to summon was of the true dead. That must have been why she'd had to summon Katherine in Elena's place, why she hadn't been able to torment him with masquerades of Elena or Damon, because she had no reach on their spirits. It was why Stefan himself was still intact. He was protecting himself from her. She could do whatever she wished with his body; this vessel belonged to her power. As did all the dead. But his soul lingered. No matter what he'd once believed, he was sure of it now. She had no power over his spirit. And if Katherine were still alive . . . she would've never been able to use her.

It never occurred to him that Katherine's fate would matter. He'd accepted her death a century and a half ago. Even when his brother revealed to him the secret of the entombed coven, he hadn't given her wellbeing much thought. It wasn't supposed to make a difference, one way or the other. After all, what he'd felt for her was just compulsion, a cheap trick, nothing but careless manipulation. That undying love hadn't been real. It took him most of his life to figure that out, but once he did, he'd been free of her everlasting hold. But then, if that were completely true, what was the sudden hollow ache in his chest for?

"Ooh," Skyler drawled in singsong. The measured clack of her stilettos against the gritty cement echoed through the room, bouncing off walls as she stalked him, occupying her hands by twirling ropes of her course tresses around all of her fingers. "That really hit the mark, did it? I'm surprised. I hadn't expected much. But now that I know what you appreciate, I'll be sure to let her visit you more often."

"Why are you doing this?" he asked tiredly, letting his eyes fall shut. His skin was so pale, it carried a silvery sheen, making the large outreaching splotches of red bruises around his eyes that much more startling. "I loved Lexi, more than you could possibly understand. Do you even know how to feel love anymore, Skyler?"

The girl pursed her lips, looking deep in a playful sort of consideration. "Probably not," she said at last.

Stefan's head lolled to the side, slitting his eyelids open again with the last of his energy. "What do you want from me?"

"As your sire said, Mister Salvatore . . . I want you to break."

"I'm already broken."

"Oh!" She laughed. "Hilarious. But no." She sidled up to him, smiling pleasantly as she drew the jagged tip of one of her fingernails across his right nipple, splicing him open, making him hiss—not from the pain, but from the tang of blood that scented the air. He was so starved, so thirsty. So mindless with it that he'd be willing to drink from _himself_. "You don't know what it is to be broken, Mister Salvatore. You have no idea what it means to live as something shattered and incomplete. As if you were assembled wrong. As if your creator was nothing more than an irreverent fuckup," she seethed. The five sharp points of her nails crooked into claws, penetrating the flesh of his stomach, digging deep.

"I'm sorry," he rasped, his voice strangled and delirious. "If I had known—"

"Don't!" she snapped, grabbing his jaw in her hand, pressing the crescent rims of her bloody nails into his cheeks as she forced his head up to face her. The glint in her eyes shined like something tangible and alive, something cold and clammy that slithered through him, brushing against his insides with her touch of death. "You knew," she whispered fiercely. Her calm held on by a trembling thread. "You all knew. And you did nothing."

"No," he denied raggedly. "No, Lexi thought you were different. She believed you were safe from this."

Skyler gave him a sickly slow smile that was basked in a bitter humor. "Of course, she knew the truth. She knew what I was. I was born this way. There was never any question of what that power would do to me. She knew that. Why do you think she left me here? She wanted to be as far away as possible when it blossomed. That way—" she lowered down to him, streaking the blood from one of her nails across her glossy lips before crushing his mouth with her own "—she could pretend it wasn't happening."

Stefan's stomach heaved at the sickness that seeped from her kiss, thanking whatever deity existed for its mercy when she finally ended it. "That's not true," he insisted. "Lexi—"

Skyler pulled away, shoving his jaw, making his head snap the other way and collide with the stone beneath him. "Alexis liked living her little lie," she droned, rolling her eyes before fixing them back on him with a playful tilt of her head. "But I loved her, regardless."

"I'm sorry she's gone," he whispered. "But I had no hand in her death."

"Nah, uh, uh," Skyler tsked, shaking a bony finger at him. "Now who's the liar?" She took a step backward and tossed her blanket of hair over one shoulder as she began circling the altar, examining him with the eyes of a sociopathic vulture descending on its prey. "Mother always loved you," she crooned in deceptive tones. "She told me that there was 'just something special' about the Brothers Salvatore. You ask why I'm doing this. You ask what I want. Well, this is what I want." She rounded the altar, coming close again. As she slithered, the necromancer glided her hand over his body, like skimming the surface of water for ripples, searching for weakness, reveling in what she had. "I want to know what that is. I want to know what she saw in you. I want to know why she loved you more than me," she ground out, very narrowly reining in the impending explosion, just barely regaining that playful façade. "So I'm going to dig . . . _deep_ . . . _down_ . . . _inside_ . . . until I find out what makes _you_ . . . so _special_."


	5. Wicked Bliss II

**Entry 5: Wicked Bliss**

**Part II**

Elena fell back into awareness with the finesse of a car crash, her body jolting with the suddenness to which she came awake. After that initial second of spiked adrenaline, her surroundings zoomed into focus, while she fought to keep up. The gala . . . Damon . . . that stranger . . . her drink . . . the mirror . . . a car . . . spiders . . . lots of red . . . strange lights and music, like a nightclub almost. The rest was a blur.

But she was on a bed, a rounded bed, humongous and satin and a bit unsettling. The air was cold and something strong was pressing down on her, making it an effort to breathe, something that would hinder her ability to move, making her feel trapped and caged, but so much freer than the harsh leather that was wrapped around her wrists made her feel. With another heart-attack jolt, she realized why her arms were asleep, why that painful tingle was scorching through them, why the core of her shoulders carried an incredible ache. She was chained into a stress position, and had been for only God knew how long. How long had she been out? How long had she been _here_?

Elena jerked against her bindings, trying to rip her arms down from above her head, wriggling the rest of her body to slide upward enough to lessen the extreme angle of her shoulders. Beneath the leather cuffs, she could feel the rawness of her wrists, the torn skin, and looked up to see trickles of blood streaking down her arms. The sting of pain came into focus only after she noticed the blood, and it cleared her haze of frenetic panic. Concentrating on calming her breathing, she scanned the dim room around her, taking everything notable in as she struggled to piece together what was going on.

That pressure that had been squeezing her like a Boa constructor turned out to be nothing more than an old-fashioned hourglass corset. Several layers of a broom skirt splayed out over her legs and across the bed. A thin sting of cold and patterned metal snaked around her throat, like a choker. _Silver_, she knew from the slow burn that seeped deep inside her from every spot it touched her. The only illumination in the room came from sets of pillar candles, all propped onto iron candleholders like standalone lamps.

Something sickening settled in her stomach as she calmed down, something that sent a sinking feeling through her. _This is so not good_, she thought, trying to keep ahold of the freak-out that wanted to burst free. She was too scared to be able to flip out. All she could do was tug absently at the ties around her arms and search the room for something that might help her. But there was nothing she could reach. And it seemed as if her bindings were specifically designed to withstand the wolf's increased strength. She was truly trapped . . . completely helpless.

_Not completely,_ sister wolf assured out of nowhere. Elena hadn't even been aware she was awake. _I've been here._ _I was just . . . adjusting._

_Adjusting?_

_Getting my bearings,_ the wolf explained._ No use in us both losing our heads._

_Do you know what's going on? _

_Not exactly,_ the wolf told her, earning a frustrated huff from Elena as she kept her body shifting, unable to just lie still under her restraints. _Did you still want to talk about the mating bond?_

Elena hesitated at that, taken aback. "What?"

_The mating bond,_ the wolf reiterated with patience. _Do you still wish to discuss it?_

Elena's face scrunched incredulously. _Now? Not really._

_What else have you got to do?_

_Gee, um, I dunno. Maybe, like, try to escape? I may not know what's going on, but I do know that I don't want to wait around and find out._

_We're not going anywhere yet. _Her eyes drifted up to the leather cuffs, watching eerily as the different trails of blood dripped infinitesimally down to her sore elbows. _Tiring yourself out is not only futile, but detrimental. If we are presented with an opportunity to get free, you'll be weakened. Do you want that?_

Elena gave another sharp tug at her wrists, letting the resultant pained noise stick in her throat because her lips were pressed into too tight a line to let it out. She stayed frozen for a long moment, debating. Finally, she let herself sag back against the bed with a weary sigh. "No," she whispered. "I don't want that." _I want you to tell me more about the mating bond._

_Well,_ the wolf began in that unjustly at-ease voice of hers. As if they were only taking a stroll in the park. It made Elena's teeth grind a bit. _Like I told you before, it started the night of the full moon. The night we shared with Damon and Stefan, you awakened the magic of our mating bond, not with the physical intimacy itself, but with the instinct that rose during it all._

_I already told you that I didn't "awaken" anything! I wouldn't even know how._

_Yes, you did. And you do. You just won't admit it to yourself_, the wolf groused. _If you would let down some of your walls, maybe you would understand yourself better. Knowledge comes naturally for us. The only reason I understand and you don't is because parts of you, deep down, are still trying to block it out._

Elena tugged again at her restraints, unable to help herself. But the ache radiated through her body and made her wince._ I've accepted that you're me. I've accepted it._

_Not one hundred percent, you haven't, otherwise you'd know all of this._

"Well, fine, but I can't do anything about that now," she hissed, shifting her body again, tensing into a tighter coil. _So maybe—just maybe—I did somehow accidentally tap into whatever magic of ours and . . . do something. But you said that was only the first stage, right? So what could it have hurt if I didn't follow through? If I don't?_

_If we don't finish the bonding process, it will always remain incomplete. Do you realize what that means for us . . . for you?_

Elena let her head fall back against the iron, squeezing her arms to her ears, trying to contend with the intensifying discomfort rippling through her. _No, I guess I don't._

_You need to. What you've started, it cannot be undone. There is no takeback, no going the other way for this. If we don't follow through, what is now a growing connection will become an open wound, one that will never heal, will never close. It will stay exposed and vulnerable to infection for the rest of our life. That is why I went behind your back, why I secured the second phase of the bond with Damon._

_Is that all it takes?_ Elena wondered, her eyes roving across the strange room, fighting to allow herself to succumb to distraction.

_No. This is not some one-sided entrapment, you know. It is much deeper than that, much more valued. Our kind would use the word sacred. The bond won't be completed until he secures his behalf. And Stefan still has to be marked._

Elena shook her head, huffing once, furling her fists. _I love Stefan. And I love Damon. More than anything,_ she exclaimed resignedly. _But the concept of soul mates is exactly the opposite of what you're talking about. How can I use a bond that defines the true love of two to essentially marry myself to both of them? It seems almost sacrilegious, _she thought with a quiet sigh.

_For ordinaries, maybe. But we aren't human anymore._

_I'd think it would go against a werewolf's nature too, _Elena challenged. _Our mating process only works for soul mates. _And she had no idea how she knew that. It was just instinctive. _Two halves of one whole, there can't be three. _Whether a deeply denied part of her wanted that to be possible or not, she just couldn't believe that it was. It went against everything she'd ever known as normal or acceptable.

There was a beat of unexpected silence that left Elena hanging for a second, but only for a second. _It is unorthodox,_ her wolf admitted. _But that doesn't matter. So what if it goes against the nature of our kind? That cannot be important. You and I both know that this is what is right. Can't you feel it?_

Elena rubbed the side of her face against her arm at an unreachable itch, smearing a trickle of blood across her cheek and into her backswept hair. It did feel right. Beneath all of the logic and foresight and common sense and worry, when everything was stripped away, _it felt right_. It felt as ironically _right_ as that night she spent with them, the night before her change. Or at least as right as the pieces that she could remember. Admitting that to herself only ushered in a soft rush of sadness, because she knew that it was doomed. Even if it hadn't been doomed from the beginning, it wasn't an option. It had never been an option. For any of them. So how was she supposed to reconcile that? And more importantly, would she even have a chance to?

_Don't think that way,_ the wolf chastised._ We're going to be fine._

Elena let out a bitter sound, too soft to be an actual laugh or scoff. "You don't know that."

"Talking to yourself, darling?"

Elena jumped, tensing immediately into a coiled spring of volatility as her eyes leapt up to the door and landed on the man from the gala. His white dress shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, left out of his dark trousers and unbuttoned at the top. His ash-blonde hair was ruffled from that slick coif it had been in when she'd first seen him. He shut the door and flipped the lock without taking his eyes from her, and her heart piqued, sweeping her breathless. "Why?" she asked, forcing her voice out past the suffocating lump in her throat.

He merely lifted a fair brow at her, padding lazily toward the bed.

Elena fought not to move, but her body was trembling ever so slightly, and there was nothing she could do about it. "Why . . ." She had to stop to take in air, unaware that she'd forgotten to breathe. "Why are you doing this? Who are you? I don't . . ." He brought one knee up onto the foot of the bed, climbing upward, and she wound in on herself, trying to mold her body into the jagged iron of the headboard. "I don't understand."

"No. You wouldn't, would you?" he mused. His hand slipped beneath the thick hemline of her skirt to clasp one of her ankles, making Elena jerk against his hold, furling her bound hands into fists above her head and tightening the fatigued muscles along her arms.

_No,_ sister wolf snapped suddenly, startling her. _Don't thrash. You'll only get our legs bound._

_Damn it,_ Elena inwardly cried, feeling the frustration swell. Nevertheless, she did what she had to. She reined in that tenuous control and harnessed it over herself, keeping perfectly still even as the desire to lash out threatened to make her buckle. "What do you want from me?" she ground out, knowing in one way that it was a pointless question, stupid even.

As his cool hand snaked up along the smooth curve of her calf, Elena clashed her teeth. His disaffecting gaze rolled up along her body, making her quiver with the urge to break his jaw, using only a quick crack of the sole of her foot. He landed on her arms, studying the streaks of blood that marred her toffee-hued skin. "I want many things from you."

Elena stared back at him, unflinching, watching with a growing sense of coldness as the stranger's irises darkened, the whites of his eyes filling with blood, the veins around them surfacing, stiffening, running red with a familiar lust. "_Vampire_," she breathed out unthinkingly, wondering why she was surprised. She should have just assumed, what with the way her luck was going nowadays. But there was one thing she just had to know. "Why me?"

The vampire stilled at the sound of her question, his hand tightening possessively over her bent kneecap, making her wince. He raised up onto his haunches then, freeing his other hand so he could reach into the back pocket of his slacks and pull out a gold chain. Hooked on it was a small locket, which he flicked open, and let it dangle carelessly in front of her face. As she focused on the tiny faded photo tucked inside, Elena felt as if she'd been sucker punched—a very unpleasant sensation that she was beginning to grow used to.

"That's why you," he told her finally, slipping the locket back into his pocket and lowering himself down onto all fours.

Elena felt the bitterness sweep in and steal her away. _Of course_, she thought. Of course this was about Katherine. Every horrible thing that happened to her since she stumbled into this world of the supernatural had been because of Katherine. "Let me guess," she muttered breathily, trying to ignore the way his hands gripped her calves and tugged them apart so he could crouch between them, the bloodlust still rising in his features. "She either screwed you over . . . or she was an old sweetheart. Tell me, which is it? Is this revenge? Or is it some pathetic role-playing fantasy?" That earned her a bruising assault of his thumb digging into a sensitive spot on her inner thigh, making her convulse sharply and cry out. "_Bastard_," she choked out, still cringing under the pain.

"This doesn't have to be unpleasant," he told her, fastidiously rolling up the folds of her skirt until it was bunched around her hips. Unable to stop herself, Elena lashed out, jamming her knee into his side with a sharp snap. He doubled over, his face landing heavily on her stomach as he grunted at the impact. "All right," he snapped, snatching her thigh when she tried to kick him again, curving his large hand over the front of it and pressing her leg down into the satin of the mattress, brashly forcing her thighs wide. "But remember this," he whispered a second before crushing his mouth down onto hers. Elena felt the prick of his fangs bite into her lips as they elongated into razors, filling her mouth with blood. "You had a choice."

"Get off me!" she spat, writhing wildly against her restraints, bucking up against him with all the vicious strength she possessed. But it was nothing.

He sunk down between her legs and drew back, like a viper readying for a strike, then plunged. The bite of his fangs stabbing into the softness of her inner thigh was excruciating, taking her by surprise. The femoral artery, she guessed. Her thrashing stilled instantly, eaten away by the fear of mangling the tender piece of flesh he was latched onto, and she went tense. Unbearably tense. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, draping wet lines across her temples and into her hair. She let her head fall back between her trembling arms, feeling the need to withdraw. The urge to struggle was too intense. She couldn't just lay there. She had to _do_ something. But . . . she was too scared.

_Let me in,_ sister wolf pleaded. The calm the voice emanated left Elena feeling jealous and even more ashamed of her own fear. But she knew what the wolf wanted. She could feel that pressure, similar to the feeling that swept over her right before the change, but not exactly, because this went deeper than just her physical form. The impulse to let that side of her take over was strong, but still, Elena couldn't just let go. It wasn't in her nature. _I know,_ the wolf whispered._ Trust me._

_I can't!_ How was she supposed to surrender herself? It would make this helplessness even worse. _I have to stay. I have to . . ._

_No,_ the wolf soothed, washing a sense of comfort through her as the wolf soul rose up and enveloped her, dragging her downward into the depths of her own darkness. A soft darkness, one that was warm and safer than anything in the world, a place she was untouchable. _Just go to sleep, Elena. _And she felt herself obeying without complaint. _Let me handle this._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back in Mystic Falls, the boarding house had fallen with a thick silence. That quiet of death only ended when Nicholas descended the stairwell and returned to where the others were gathered in the parlor.

Daylight shined in through the looming windows, breaking apart the stifling shadows. The fireplace still smoldered with the remnants of the night's flame. Damon was on his third bottle of vodka, finding that it managed to take the worst of the edge off, keeping him from killing someone unnecessarily, keeping him in somewhat of control every time he felt close to finding Elena only to get the rug ripped out from under him. Grace's "risky" plan hadn't panned out. And they were running out of options.

First, she had Bonnie try to conjure a belonging of Calhoun's from the ether for them to use on a locator's spell. But the half-pint couldn't manage, and she was the only one with that specific gift, or so Grace claimed. Then, the redheaded Wiccan had tried to enchant herself with the ability to sense the wolflike ones, using a drop of Tyler's blood, thinking there couldn't be that many lupines between here and wherever Elena had been taken. They were rare. It should have given her the chance to track Elena. But, like every other trick they'd tried through the night and half the day, that hadn't worked properly either. In fact, that little incantation had not only failed, but backfired as well.

"How is she?" Bonnie queried the second Nicholas came through the corridor's archway and into the room.

"Alive," he replied then plopped down onto one of the settees. "She'll be fine. Eventually," he added.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be more help," she said quietly, staring at one of the undraped oriel windows. She'd called her Grams for help, but the old woman still held steadfast to her stance of staying uninvolved, no matter the circumstances. So the girl was feeling like an utter disappointment.

Nic only dismissed her apology with an untroubled wave of his hand. "Have you seen anything new?" he asked, making Damon lift his head and turn her way.

The dark-skinned witch gave them both a grim shake of her head, pressing her mouth in a thin line. She was strewn out over one of the leather armchairs, her arms folded over her midsection, her brow marred with a deep crease of concern. She'd been that way since Jeremy had to leave, after Jenna called demanding to know why both he and Elena had never come home the night before. He'd wanted to be upfront with Jenna, maybe not about the details, but she deserved to know that Elena was missing. They'd managed to talk him out of it, stating how senseless it was to worry her before they had any news . . . one way or the other.

"Maybe we should try to find Anna Dupré again," Nic suggested.

Bonnie frowned. "You said the compass wasn't working."

"No, but she's got to be around here somewhere. Just because she was hiding out when we hit the motel last night, doesn't mean we won't be able to find her now that the sun's up."

"She doesn't have one of those lapis lazuli rings?" Bonnie asked.

Nicholas hesitated, glancing at Damon with a quizzical lift of his brow. The other vampire shook his head and took another gulp from his glass. "I didn't notice one way or the other."

"Maybe Alaric—"

"Quiet," Damon cut her off, his attention piquing at something unseen.

"Don't bother getting up," a girlish voice resonated through the room a second before Anna sauntered into view, playfully holding her hands up. "We come in peace."

"Speak of the vampire," Damon drawled, bringing the tumbler to his lips once more before he set it aside and rose to his feet. "Be honest, how long have you been lying in wait for that entrance?"

The girl's lips quirked as her shoulders shrugged. "A few hours," she retorted, stepping down into the cavernous parlor. "No sense in revealing ourselves before you'd be ready to listen."

"Your use of pronouns interests me," he said, rounding the scattered furniture as they circled toward one another. "Where's your little peroxide pet?"

"I resent that," Sebastian quipped in a flat tone as he moved in from the corridor on the other side of them. "Going to offer a fellow a drink, Salvatore?"

"No." Damon's eyes stayed fixed on Anna. "Make your point. I'm busy."

"Okay," she drawled, amusement tinting her tones. "I'll be quick then."

"I doubt that."

"I have some information you might be inter—" Before she could finish, Anna found herself slammed up against the corridor wall, cracking the wooden paneling, Damon's hand at her throat. When Sebastian went after them, Nicholas blurred into his pathway. Bonnie leapt to her feet a few seconds too slow, her eyes flicking from one pair to the other, wondering who to light on fire with her mind.

"Where is she?" Damon growled, tightening his hold on the petite vampire, making her soft features grimace. "Tell me now and I won't snap your spine."

"I think you forget," she strangled out, latching onto his wrist and crushing the bone before spinning and kicking her heel into his stomach, sending him flying. Damon landed on his back in the parlor, the splintered wood of an end table biting beneath him. "I may be small, but I've got a lot of years on you, Salvatore. Don't think you can bully me."

"Stop!" Bonnie yelled, running around the cluster of sofas to stand over Damon. She held out her hand toward Anna, concentrating. "Don't come any closer."

Anna gave the witch a curious look, but kept advancing with that lazy pace of hers nonetheless. "Why?" she wondered. "What do you think you're going to do? Cast a spell?"

Bonnie lifted her chin, wondering whether or not she could ever be faster than a vampire. This one could snap her neck before she had a chance to tap into her magic. She knew this. So why wasn't she more afraid? Why was she standing between Anna and Damon? Oh, right. Because Damon was the only one that both _would_ and _could_ do anything to save her best friend, who right at this moment was in serious danger. That's why. "I could," she said finally, summoning that crackling energy of flame. "Or I could just incinerate you where you stand."

Anna's delicate brow rose at that. "Really?" she challenged. "Then how will you find Elena Gilbert?"

That turned Bonnie cold. She was right. She couldn't kill her. Not if she knew where Elena was. With that in mind, Bonnie let her breath leave her in a soft _whoosh_ of defeat, lowering her arm. She glanced over her shoulder, looking up at Damon. Other than being a bit disheveled and shooting unhappy looks at his healing wrist, he looked perfectly fine. _Good_, she thought. She'd just let him deal with this then. After all, she may not trust him—concerning Elena or anything else in the universe—but she had no doubt about his ability to get things done, nor did she doubt his willingness to do just about whatever it took to get Elena back. Not that any of that changed her mind completely about her decision to keep them apart. Hell, no.

As Bonnie moved back to her corner of the room, shying away from the four tense vampires, Damon let his gaze drift up to connect with Anna's. His jaw clenched. "I'm listening."

Instantly, Anna's airy mood evaporated. "It's simple, really. I want the grimoire. You help me get it, and I might be inclined to share what I know."

"Either you know where he took her or you don't," Damon said, his voice thin and tight with impending violence. "Why should I waste my time on you?"

Anna huffed, rolling her eyes. As she strolled through the room, she picked up an ornate letter opener off of the sofa table and started playing with it. "There's this place that Noah likes to go. He's an old man, Salvatore. You're an infant in comparison. He has _patterns_. We all do. I just happen to be familiar with his."

"I need a name, a location."

"After you tell me where I can find Emily Bennett's grimoire," she challenged, remaining steadfast.

They eyed one another for a drawn-out moment. Until, finally, Damon realized she was immovable on the matter. In all honesty, he had no other option, and in that moment . . . he could accept that. With a heavy sigh and a jaw working with agitation, he blurred out of the room, rustling her hair with the resultant wind as he brushed by her.

Anna spun and followed, not trusting him out of her sight. He led her up to the second floor and into the vast study. She watched with barely restrained anxiousness as he pulled out an old hardcover from one of the bookshelves, flipped it open, and snatched up the iron skeleton key that fell from the hollowed-out pages. Rusty key in hand, Damon tossed the book over his shoulder, letting it hit the floor as he made his way to the master desk and unlocked the antique coffer that sat at the forefront of the piles of papers and pads. From inside the small wooden chest, Damon pulled out a dusty leather-bound writing journal. Handling it indifferently, he spun on his heel and tossed it at her.

Anna caught the book one-handed, turning her head and coughing at the explosion of dust that coated the air around her. When she opened her eyes, she sent him a dirty look.

"My father's last journal of eighteen sixty-four," he told her stoically. "If he chronicled what he did with the grimoire, it'll be in there."

"You don't know?"

"Haven't had the chance to look," he said. "Your turn."

Anna studied the book in her hand with a dubious look, scrunching up her button-nose and curling her lip. "This isn't exactly what I had in mind."

"It's all you're getting. The name, Anna." He snapped his fingers for her attention. "_Now_."

At long last, the little vampire rolled her eyes and heaved a resigned sigh, swiping her hand at the dusty air. "It's a vampire den in downtown Atlanta," she told him, looking sullen. "A place called _Wicked Bliss_, Noah takes all of his concubines there when he's nearby."

Damon was warring between relief and aggravation. _She's been in Atlanta all along. So freaking close. Not even six hours away._ But then he thought about the rest of what she'd said. That dead man walking took Elena into a vampire nest? _Jesus, she's been there all night._ Shaking it off, he shut that all out and focused adamantly on the here and now. "Concubines?" he drawled.

Anna sent him a disgruntled look. "Well, what else would you call it?"

"Nothing," he said, snatching up her arm as he brushed by. He manhandled her with impatience as he descended the stairwell and crossed to the front door. "We're done here. Now get out of my house."

"With pleasure," she sniped, jerking free of his grasp and glowering when he flung the door open and ushered her out onto the porch.

"Your puppy too," he added, holding it open.

Anna shot him another dirty look but called for her companion anyway. A second later, Sebastian appeared at her side. "That it?" he asked.

"No," she grumbled. "But it'll do."

Damon offered her a sardonic look. "Lovely doing business with you, Dupré." Then he flicked the door and let it slam in their faces.

"If this isn't what I need, we'll be paying you a visit soon enough," her soft voice rang through his ears as he made his way into the parlor. A moment later, she and her lapdog were gone.

"Nic. Get your stuff and let's go," he barked, making his way to the utility closet for the sharpened stakes left hidden there. "We've got her."

Nicholas came lazily to his feet, sloshing the drink he'd poured a minute ago in his hand. "I'll go see if Grace is up for a trip. She'll be pissed if she isn't asked."

"I'm coming too," Bonnie declared, following Damon through the house with squared shoulders and a resolute chin. "Don't even think you're leaving me behind."

Leather jacket in hand, Damon spun and kept walking, only backwards, toward the door. "Wouldn't think of it," he quipped. "You might come in handy."

"In case you need a snack?" she barbed back with a sour smile, earning a low chuckle from him as he threw the front door open and gestured for her to hurry along ahead of him.

"We'll take my Cadillac," Nic announced from the crook in the stairwell, his arms full of a drowsy Grace. "More room."

"Less speed," Damon countered. "You can follow."

"Where are we going?" Bonnie asked, climbing into the black SUV that sat in the driveway.

Before she could shut the door, Damon caught it and dropped his iPhone into her lap. "That's what you're going to figure out, girly. MapQuest a club called _Wicked Bliss_ in downtown Atlanta. That's where they'll be."

"Bing is better."

Damon shot her an incredulous look and a put upon "_whatever_" with a roll of his eyes before he slammed her door shut and blurred to his waiting Camaro. "God, do you see what I have to put up with?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In Atlanta, nightfall had arrived. Elena was still unaware, and her wolf was still in control, still biding her time. There was a static calm about her on the inside, a white noise of sorts that she'd sunken into in order to protect herself. In order to do what needed to be done.

She had to wait for the right moment. She understood this. If she acted too soon, she'd lose her chance. She had one shot at this, _just one_. But waiting meant suffering. Waiting meant submitting to this one that was not her mate, this one that only wanted to use her then throw her away. That was not an easy feat. Every bone in her body, every beat of her heart, every breath—her very nature fought against this. But she understood what needed to be taken care of. She knew what she had to do, so she did it. She submitted. She allowed him to have her, hurt her, plays his games, and she waited.

The human of her was shielded, unaware for the most part. True, she couldn't completely keep Elena from it, not at every moment, not a hundred percent. But she did her best to make sure that her girl was protected from what might be traumatic for her, what might wound her, deep where the wolf's accelerated healing couldn't repair. She also kept the burgeoning links between her and her mates closed down. She knew one of them was coming for her. That was all she needed to know. Being connected to them on that core level, the one beyond anything conscious, while she waited wouldn't do any good. It would only make her more vulnerable. So she shut out the brothers, she shut out Elena, and she concentrated on that opportunity that was sure to present itself, should she be patient enough to see it coming.

The wolf couldn't say how long she ended up waiting, or how many times she'd slipped and let blurry pieces of it reach Elena, because nothing mattered until that moment of clarity, that moment that arrived at long last and whispered to her, giving her the will to act. He'd worn himself out. He was tired. He was relaxed. He was distracted with the aftermath of release. He didn't realize that he'd given into abandon while lingering in the perfect position . . . _for her_.

See, she _wasn't_ tired, because she'd been restoring herself as she'd been lying in wait. While he'd been expending his energy, she'd been collecting hers. So when that moment came, she was quick and sharp and strong. Kicking her heels off of the bed for momentum, the wolf latched her thighs around her violator's neck, hooking her ankles for leverage. She used the force of her bindings to pull her body up from the mattress, shifting that weight to her thighs and in extension to his neck, then wrenched with a sudden twist, pushing the strength of the movement from her hips down to her thighs, calves, ankles. It was so quick, so fluid, it all came together as one motion, too sudden for him to react in time. The unmistakable _crunch_ of his vertebrae shattering filled her ears, and the wolf let out an involuntary yowl of triumph and relief.

With a steadying breath, she brought herself down from that jolt of adrenaline, enough so to keep her cool, and let her body fall back to the bed as she released him. She slid her legs out from under that deadweight and kicked his carcass off of the bed. She wasn't sure whether he would heal from a broken spinal column or not, and she didn't want to wait to find out. Using her limber flexibility, the wolf reached to the floor with her leg and clutched the discarded heap of trousers between her toes to reel them up to her, increasing the strain on her wrists but ultimately getting her what she needed. Using one foot to pin the pants to the bed, she wiggled her other into the correct pocket and latched onto the cold metal of a keychain. Then she kicked the trousers away and curled her leg inward, taking the dangling keys between her teeth and wrangling the right one up enough to reach the padlock. It wasn't graceful or pretty. It was awkward and difficult. But it got the job done.

When she finally managed to get the padlock off of the linking chain, the wolf coiled, gathering all of her strength for one supreme jerk of her wrists, putting the rest of her body behind the force of it. The reinforced chain sustained, but the iron of the headboard to which it was wrapped around broke off into two deformed pieces at the power of her resistance. The relief that sang through her shoulders, all the way down to the tips of her fingers, when the wolf was finally able to escape from that unbearable stress position made her want to weep. But there was no time for celebrating.

Without bothering about the cuffs that still held her, the wolf slithered from the bed and used a hurried kick to splinter off one of the nightstand's legs. Then, with her small palm hugging the smooth wood of the piece, she dropped to her knees astride the immobilized vampire's chest. With a shuddery breath, the wolf found his heart, pressed the ragged tip of the wood to it, and hesitated. She wondered for a moment whether or not this was something she should let through to Elena. Would it be something that would give her girl some peace? Would the memory of retribution help or hinder? Ultimately, the wolf softened that wall between them. She let a bit of the girl soak in before she drew her arms up above her head then swung them downward.

The jagged point of the wood pierced his heart, butter yielding to a knife's edge. Leaving it there, protruding from his chest, she leapt away before the resultant decomposing could taint her.

The wolf fell to the lush carpet, her back against the foot of the bed, her knees to her chest. The seam of her skirt was torn across her left hip, but other than that slight imperfection, her clothing remained pristine. Her body, however, carried the stench of her violator's scent. He'd left his mark on her. It made her want to retch.

She just hoped her mates could look past that. She believed they would for Elena. Her girl couldn't understand the deeper implications, though. The surface consequences would be enough to damage her. But the wolf wasn't worried. They were a resilient creature. Now, though, it was time to give back the control.

But first . . . the wolf brought her bound wrists to her mouth and, with deft precision, worked the metal buckles unclasped. Free of the leather, she let the achingly raw flesh breathe in the air of the stale room around her, and found the correct key on his chain to unlock the silver bracer around her neck, reveling in the feel of liberation.

It was only then that she released her hold and faded into the background, rousing her girl back to awareness.

Elena found herself sitting on the floor by a shriveled corpse, almost unrecognizable. Now would be the perfect time for freaking out. She would be completely justified. Yet . . . she couldn't. All she could do was sit there and stare into the nothingness. She felt cold, and numb, and empty. _Shock_, she thought. Most definitely oncoming shock, but the fact that she could see that so easily had to be a good sign, right? It meant her brain was still working properly, however sluggishly. Part of her wished that the wolf hadn't just relinquished control that way. She half wished she was still lost, deep down in that pit of her own psyche. That way, there was no responsibility. She didn't have to _do_ anything. She didn't have to think, or feel, or worry, or move. But the wolf had chosen to give that to Elena. So what was she supposed to do?

_Go home. Get somewhere safe. Recuperate._

Just then, an unhesitant knock resounded through the room, a rude banging on the one and only door. Moved to action, Elena climbed painstakingly to her feet and shuffled toward it, not even bothering to pick her bare feet up from the floor as she went. Opening it a crack revealed a man standing out in the red-colored hall, a young man with a shaved head and a five o'clock shadow and a white-smock sort of uniform. A sliver of trepidation slithered through her, making her shiver. She couldn't say how exactly she knew he was a vampire, just that she sensed it.

The man took one look at her and flattened his hand to the door, gently pushing it all the way open. She stepped back to let him do it. When he got a look at the corpse lying behind her, he gave a quiet sigh, shaking his head, and then let his impassive gaze roam over her. "Sinclair has called for you."

Elena swallowed to find her voice, blinking. "Me?"

The uniform's eyes flicked back to the corpse. "You'll do." He pointed with his chin toward the divider that blocked the bathroom. "Get yourself cleaned up first." Then, with nothing more, he reached in and shut the door, closing her in. All by herself again.

Elena took a good long look at the room around her and began to tremble. "Who's Sinclair?" she asked the corpse, tilting her head and lowering her eyelids to shut out the horrific sight. "Who's Sinclair?" she whispered again, turning around and shuffling into the adjoining bathroom.

The whirlpool tub that was featured still sat full of placid water. But she ignored it, retreating instead to the small shower stall that was tucked in one corner of the white marble room. She opened it up, listening to the glass door creak as it swung. Then she switched on the faucet and let the cold spray from the showerhead pelt into her arm, washing away some flecks of dried blood that clung there. She didn't bother waiting for the temperature to warm, or even with stripping from her clothing. She just stepped right in and left the door ajar.

Who knew how long later it was when she finally came out—sodden, still detached, but free of grime and blood. Forgoing the row of fluffy towels that awaited her, Elena wandered in small circles for awhile, dripping a trail of cold water across the floor, leaving huge puddles as her chemise and skirt and petticoat dripped, and her long locks hung in tangled ropes down her shoulders, making her resemble a drowned rat.

After an indeterminable stretch of vacant quiet, she knew she needed to take action. She couldn't toll away the time here forever, if only because that decomposed body would eventually begin to reek. _Strange_, she thought, that it hadn't already.

When Elena finally braved leaving the room, she found the hallway full of three strangers—vampires, probably. The man that had come to the door stood closest to her. But it wasn't him that acknowledged her. It was the woman, the delicate-faced and russet-haired woman with the dark blue eyes and smoky makeup. She pushed away from the wall she'd been leaning on and moved to take the lead of the grouped strangers.

"Theresa Latham," she introduced herself, soft-spoken and unassuming. And when Elena failed to react, Theresa turned to the men, shooed them with a flick of her wrist, then watched as they shuffled off. Once the two were alone in the long stretch of hall, Theresa turned back to the girl and tugged her embellished vest straight. There was no blouse beneath, so a lot of alabaster skin was exposed. "And you are?" she asked at last.

The girl reached behind her and shut the door to the room, feeling better with it pressed to her back. "Elena," she rasped with nothing better to do than answer honestly.

Theresa pursed her glossy lips and gave a short nod of her head before she shifted her body, gesturing an arm toward the end of the hall. "This way, Elena."

Down two sets of stairs and through an endless red-painted corridor with headache-inducing laser lights, and after various snide glances from passersby, Elena found herself entering a sophisticatedly-designed lounge. Blue-cushioned furniture, glass-topped tables, gossamer drapes swaying everywhere, UV rope lights strung to the rafters up in the vaulted-ceiling, vinyl flooring, and suspicious-looking luxury seclusion booths. A backlit bar ran along one far wall, while a small stage sat kitty-corner to it, where built-in fog machines filled the room with a distracting mist. Altogether, it set Elena's teeth on edge with anxiety.

This was not a good place to be, and she didn't need the wolf's sense for danger to tell her that.

The pink-haired girl on stage wore a bodysuit of lacy spider webs and combat boots, an odd ensemble to say the least. Her voice was high and shrill, but powerful nonetheless, showcased with Adam Lambert's _If I Had You_. Her performance was passionate, despite the circling dance floor around her being empty.

Through the maze of privacy booths, she followed the Theresa Latham woman to the VIP area, which was curtained-off with a thicker layer of gossamer drapes. Inside, a crescent-shaped divan curved against the red wall, centered with a shin-high table of crystal prisms.

A sleek-suited man lounged in the middle section of the divan, his arms hooked lazily over the back cushions, one ankle resting on his other thigh. His honey hair was styled short and combed back, mussed but not distractingly so. His lips were the luscious sort, the kind that become the focus of the correlating features, the type that draw the eye, a stark shade of natural coral against the backdrop of his pale face. It seemed as if he couldn't have been any more than 19 or 20, but she knew better than anyone how fooling appearances could be. He was certainly handsome, in a boyish sort of way, that is.

But it was his eyes that caught her attention when she was led toward him. His sparkling dark gaze penetrated the thick haze of her shock with a sudden stab that made her rush through a sharp intake of breath, swallowing against the skyrocketing of her heartbeat, the quickening of her pulse. She didn't want to go, but her feet wouldn't quit moving her forward.

"So it is true," he intoned with a dark curve of his mouth as she approached. "Lovely Lady Katherine has returned to us."

"I'm not," she rebutted in a flat voice, bunching her shaky hands in the sopping layers of her skirt to keep them occupied. "You've got the wrong girl."

"I think not," he murmured below his breath, sparkling eyes burning into her. As if he could see right through her. As if he could see, just by looking here and now, what it was that made her tick. "Leave us."

The quiet ones that lurked in the shadows stirred at his soft order, skulking away without comment. When Theresa slipped by her and disappeared, Elena felt the urge to make a run for it. But her feet were frozen to the spot as he looked at her.

This man, there was no doubt that he was Sinclair. The name rang a bell in her head, somewhere deep down where she couldn't reach. It was the same sensation of unreachable familiarity that his piercing stare insinuated. A deeply instilled sort of terror was what he provoked within her using nothing but that lazy stare, the intensity there that spoke of many things, none of which she understood. It was the type of terror that hardly anyone actually ever felt during their lifetime, though they spent their lives trying to replicate it through make-believe horrors, thinking it a rush. She herself was guilty of that. But she'd learned her lesson. She'd been put in her place. It wasn't a rush. It wasn't thrilling. It was breathtaking, a quietly traumatic sensation that she would do anything to avoid experiencing again, and would do anything to escape from in the here and now.

He tilted his head at that moment, his golden brow creasing the slightest. "If I had believed what I'd heard, I wouldn't have allowed Mr. Calhoun so much time with you."

_What a sweet sentiment_, she thought, laced with bitterness. But she couldn't get her mouth to work well enough to barb it out at him.

"Won't you speak to me?" he teased, tapping his fingers across the top of the cushions he was draped over.

Elena shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "I don't know who you are, or what it is you want."

"You can call me Sinclair. And as for what I want, well, I only wanted a word."

Elena straightened, lifting her chin, letting that provide her some measure of assurance under the buckling pressure of her emotions, her hesitancy and her quaking fear. "You've gotten that, _Sinclair_."

The man cast his face away and let out a downtrodden sigh, pursing his lips. "I suppose your contempt is well called for. Still, I can't help but feel disappointment."

"What is it you expected from me?" she asked, frowning in confusion and unhappiness, trying to keep her knees steeled even as their trembling grew more adamant.

"Nothing," he replied, waving her query away and rising to his feet. "Tell me, love. What is it _you_ want?"

"Excuse me?" she countered, hedging around the prism table as he started toward her with a carefully constructed pace of laziness that made her heart leap with panic.

"You asked what I wanted from you, a word, and you're right—I've gotten that. So now I'm asking you. What is it that _you_ want?" he asked, his honeyed whisper a brush of silky knuckles across her skin, a rush of cold terror across her insides.

"Me?" she echoed, swallowing thickly, backing away as he advanced on her. Until her back smacked into a gossamer-covered wall and he had her cornered. "What I want . . . I want . . ." It was hard to breathe with him so close, the fear so stifling. Hard to resist the instinct to cower. But this was Elena Gilbert, so she managed. "I want to leave."

Sinclair leaned in, close enough to soak up the wet scent of her, giving her a long look. Then, _finally_, he drew away. "As you wish."

Elena sagged with the relief, but it was immeasurable against the tension of fear and wariness that remained in place. "Thanks," she murmured lamely, fidgeting untrustingly.

The man gave her only a few steps of distance before he stopped and shrugged out of his ebony dinner jacket. With a sharp flick of a flare, he draped the jacket around her shoulders, buttoning it once to make it cling to her drenched little form. Before she could draw out of his reach, Sinclair traced the soft curve of her face with one hand, making her shiver and bite down on the urge to flinch away. Then, he took her hand in his and laid a theatric kiss to the tender inside of her wrist, which had healed by now. His eyes never left her own. "Until we meet again, _cara mia_ . . ."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The entire ride down to Atlanta, Damon spent resisting the urge to jump out and run the rest of the way, just so he didn't have to sit still. It would've taken longer, though, if he could have even made it. His endurance was impressive, but even he had his limits. There was always flying, too. The impulse to shift into his aves form and jet down there was nearly overwhelming. But common sense had gotten the better of him in no time. He couldn't carry as a crow. Meaning he'd arrive to this nest empty-handed, with no backup, and no way to get her out.

As cocky as he was, Damon was not a stupid man. Barging into a den lousy with vampires defenseless wasn't going to do Elena any good, and it sure as hell wouldn't be a picnic for his health, either. No, he was a logical creature, and that fact had him sticking it out. The drive wasn't so time-consuming when he was skirting the interstate at 120. Still, though, the wasted hours were hell on his calm.

By the time he swerved through three lanes of oncoming traffic and screeched to a jerky stop within the _Wicked Bliss_ car lot, Damon was about ready to take on an army of fellow bloodsuckers if it only meant that he didn't have to sit here on his hands for one more second.

The others weren't far behind, true, but waiting for them was just too much to ask of him in his current state. So he shut off the engine, slanted across to the passenger's side, and knocked open the glove compartment, delving in until his hand closed around the hard steel of the Smith & Wesson he'd taken from that fool Logan a few months back. When he first shoved it in there, he'd remembered to reload the magazine. But just to be sure, he popped out the clip and double-checked the ammo. Then once he was satisfied, Damon slid out of the car and onto his feet, tucked the 9mm into his waistband and slipped the wooden stake up the sleeve of his jacket before he spun to invade.

It was late, and the front entrance was open for business, yet the walkway was eerily deserted. He pricked his ears for signs of a trap, an ambush, anything that would explain the badness he was sensing, but there was nothing out of the expected. Shoving the suspicion aside, he blurred in and had the awaiting host by his collar before he could react, yanking the other vampire off his feet and halfway over the podium that stood between them.

"You're going to help me find someone."

"That depends on who you're after," the host countered, not at all perturbed by being held up by his scruff. "We have a strict protection policy for our patrons. But if it's an employee—"

"Name's Calhoun," Damon cut in, tightening his hold when the other vampire looked about to protest. "Policy or not, you're taking me to him."

"I'm sorry, sir." He didn't sound sorry, not one bit. "But I can't do that." The host covered Damon's fists with his own and cracked his knuckles, blurring out of the rude hold. Damon spun just as quickly, catching the host by the shoulder before he could disappear through the opening in the velvet drapes that shrouded the foyer. They tussled, limbs blurring between attacks and diverts for a few seconds before Damon managed to catch the other vampire's blind spot and knee him so hard into the wall that the plaster cracked. On his haunches, the host looked up, irritated at last. "Now _that_ you're going to regret."

But Damon had already deemed him a waste of time and was stalking through the cluster of corridors beyond. Following the sound of activity, he turned three corners and found himself in the main room of the nightclub, only to be greeted with a formation of six mean-looking vamps, garbed in all-black, including combat boots. _Great_, he thought. He couldn't stand bouncers under the best of circumstances, not that he wouldn't be able to get past them if he had to—maybe. But this den was more impressive than he'd counted on. He had no idea how he was going to find Elena within this place. It was like a maze. A maze full of temperamental elders from what his senses were telling him. The real problem, though, was that he wasn't sensing the one he needed.

"I'm only out for one man's blood," he told them, holding up his hands in the universal _placate_ signal, even as he hedged his way closer. "And he's nothing to you."

"Should we escort him out?" the biggest of the bunch queried, his eyes never straying from Damon.

"Let him through, boys."

The formation of monkeys immediately eased, scattering out until a clear path was stretched before Damon. At the end of which stood an unfamiliar beauty, exotic and tantalizing and smiling at him like she'd seen him before in some other dark room. Let it be said that Damon Salvatore was never a man to pass up an opportunity.

Sidling up to her, he forced his violence-ready muscles to relax infinitesimally and offered up the most charming smirk in his arsenal. "Do me a favor, beautiful? I'm looking for someone in here and I don't have the time search."

Least to say, the beauty did not seem impressed. Raking her eyes over him, she tipped her head and stepped to the side. "Yes, I heard . . . This way then," she told him then sauntered away, not bothering to wait and see if he'd follow.

Damon trailed the russet-haired beauty through the club and she brought him into a VIP lounge, where a suit was chilling. Head Honcho was practically stamped across this guy's forehead. _Let's just hope he's more helpful than his lackeys_, he thought, struggling to keep his cool.

"This one's looking for Calhoun."

The suit's laidback stare rolled from the beauty to onceover the other vampire. "Damon Salvatore," he greeted. "We meet at last."

Damon's brow tightened. This vamp gave him the creeps, which—admittedly—was a pretty impressive feat. "I've got a feeling this ain't a case of my reputation proceeding me."

"On the contrary," the big shot rebuffed. "I've heard much of you."

Damon shrugged it off. He didn't have time for chitchat, not when Elena was so close. "You're the boss around here, right? Which means you know everything that goes on in your house," he concluded, coiling his muscles.

Blondie raised his eyebrows as he gave Damon a perfunctory nod. "That's correct."

Damon's jaw clenched. He rounded the crystal coffee table that stood between them, holding back the urge to spring by his last thread. "Then you won't mind telling me where exactly it is I can find that prick, Noah Calhoun."

"Would I mind?" the other vampire retorted, tapping his fingertips across the top of the cushions he was sprawled over, looking like an overgrown jungle cat. "Not really. But whether I mind or not isn't the issue. The real question is why I would do that for you. We here at _Wicked Bliss_ take the wellbeing of our affiliates _very_ seriously while they are in our haven. If I was going to overlook that, I must have appropriate motivation. Wouldn't you say?"

Damon snapped. He just . . . _snapped_. Blurring the meager distance between them, he wrapped his hand around the other's throat and hauled him to his feet. They slammed into a far wall together, Damon having him pinned. "Where is she?" he growled, digging into the larynx beneath his grip.

A swarm of vamps had him flanked, all crimson-eyed and razor-fanged, but the suit held up his palm to them, waving his people off with perfected nonchalance. Damon wasn't an idiot. Even through the haze of rage and impatience, he could sense how many years this one had over him. He only had Blondie pinned to the wall because that's what the elder was allowing. That knowledge alone should have been enough to humble him into some smarts, but he was at the end of his rope.

"_Tell me where she is_."

"I assume you mean the young girl accompanying Mister Calhoun," the elder replied, his voice giving away not even a sliver of discomfort at the crushing hold Damon had on him. It was as if he were still stretched out over his cushions.

"The girl he drugged and stole from me?" Damon countered. His tone was harsh, his teeth were set. "That would be the one."

"You just missed her." The elder flicked a hand in the direction Damon had just come from. "She wandered away not ten minutes ago."

A rush of reaction knocked into Damon, nearly throwing him from his goal. "By herself?" he asked, struggling to get his hand to obey him as he told it to release the one he had by the throat. It didn't want to let go. It wanted to finish what it'd started, crush and wrench. But he had to focus. He had to find Elena.

"She was on her own," Blondie confirmed, pushing away from the wall and tugging his tucked-in button-down straight when Damon backed away, lilting his mouth into an amused grin. "Hurry and you just may be able to catch her before she finds herself in any more trouble."

"I'll show him out."

"No, Theresa. He can find his way."

Their voices faded as Damon turned and blurred out onto the street, coming to a stop at the curb. The night was at ease, no wind at all. Still, he had to shut his eyes and file through the myriad of scents that stung the air before he found hers. No more eucalyptus. That had been stripped away. Only the primitive lingering of _Elena_ remained. But it was there. And it was her. He'd recognize it anywhere. And it was leading him down the block, away from _Wicked Bliss_.

"_I've got you_," he whispered, the sounds of the city blaring around him, hazing her out. She was close. He was nearing by the second. Still, he kept his pace human, not wanting to risk veering off of her scent.

Damon breezed past a kink shop, came around the corner of a neighboring butcher's, and there she was. At the end of the block, sitting on the curb, staring off into space. As he looked at her, he went cold. She was soaked to the bone, drenched. But it wasn't that. It was a combination of the look in her eyes—that dead stare—and just the sight of her. She was dressed . . . dressed up . . . in period garb. She was dressed up . . . like . . . _Katherine_.

_Jesus, she's . . . she's just . . . _Obviously, thinking was useless.

The closer he came, the more intense that cold feeling became. Wonder plagued him, running through his mind, all that could have put that look in her eye. _19 hours._ _He's had her for 19 hours_, he thought. _Fuck_. How badly he wanted Calhoun in his grip. All the things he'd do to that motherfucker flashed through his imagination, feeding his fury. God help him, he'd never wanted to murder someone so fiercely in his life. How crazily he wanted to beat the hell out of Calhoun, pound him into sludge against the pavement. How badly he wanted to beat the hell out of _himself_ for being so stupid as to let some prick like that swoop in and steal her away. _Nothing special_, he thought. _No warning, no sign at all._ It just . . ._ happened._

"Elena," he called, reaching for her.

"_Don't_!" she snapped through gnashed teeth, jolting from her daze in time to flinch away from him. The vehemence was startling, yet gone just as swiftly as it had surged, leaving nothing but a dull shell. "Don't touch me."

Damon froze, uncertainty rippling through him. His gaze shifted to her hands, watching the way her reddened fingertips bit into the gritty cement of the curb. He wanted to cringe at the foreign sound of her voice, hollow and strange. If he could only get a look into her eyes, if she would only look at him, maybe he'd be able to figure out what he was supposed to do now. But she was adamantly avoiding him, her vacant stare fixated on the haggard pedestrians that wandered by on the opposite sidewalk.

A streetwalker in a crochet poncho that was substituting for a skirt stepped into the street just as a beaten-looking Camry coasted to a stop at the corner, rolling its passenger side window down for her to duck her scraggly head into.

Elena was quit the picture, sitting there curbside in her antique attire, looking like a drowned ghost of the past.

Surveying their surroundings, Damon raked a hand through his hair, scratching at the back of his head with a heavy sigh, before he turned and sunk down to perch on the edge of the sidewalk beside her. There was breathing space between them. But they were close enough for him to feel the heat of her body. Close enough for that to lull his anxiety. And she didn't react either way, so he held his place.

How much time passed while they sat curbside staring off into infinity together couldn't be determined. But the breaking point came quickly when Nic's Cadillac screeched to a halt nearby, after just zooming right by them. The shiny black SUV jerked backward, angling against the shoulder of the street in a split-second flat before three different doors swung open and the three passengers leapt out.

"What's going on?" Nicholas asked. "What'd we miss?"

Grace ambled up to his side, her frowning eyes focused on Elena. "Shush," she hushed him under her breath, her voice mournful almost. "The cavalry's a bit late, Nico. Late and unneeded."

"Elena?" Bonnie called out, her face inexplicably crumpling on the brink of tears.

It wasn't until that moment that Elena first looked up, blinking, letting the blankness slowly dissipate from her eyes. She took in one deep breath for steadiness then climbed painstakingly to her feet, body rigid and stiff. Her expression was stoic with perceived duty.

"I just want to go home," she told them—flat, exhausted, not looking at anyone in particular.

Damon stayed where he sat, watching her with a quiet intensity that smoldered, an inner helplessness that ate away at him. He watched as Elena took her first step toward the waiting vehicle, only to be pummeled by Bonnie, who flung herself through the distance and threw her arms around the sodden girl, clutching her. He watched the way Elena stiffened, looking stricken and startled by this, freezing like a deer caught in headlights at her friend's overwrought hug. He watched as, after a moment, the dead look in her eyes faded, replaced by an awakening comprehension.

She turned her face into the straightened mane of the other girl's hair and inhaled, letting the unmistakable scent of her best friend filter through the fog. And when her knees gave out, Bonnie's arms tightened, holding her up. Elena brought her arms up as slow as molasses, winding them over her friend's shoulders, clutching at her as she hid her face in Bonnie's shoulder and began to hyperventilate.

Damon watched this too. Ultimately, though, he rose to his feet, turned on his heels, and left. He didn't know what to do with Elena. She made him feel helpless. But there was one thing that he did know how to do. One thing he _needed_ to take care of. More for himself than for her.

Backtracking, Damon returned to _Wicked Bliss_. He burst through the front entrance, flinging the doors wide. There was no one to greet him in the entryway. Paying no mind to Nicholas, who flanked his side, Damon stalked through the lifeless corridors, coming out into the main room to find the lounge emptying. The Head Honcho was MIA. The bouncers were no-shows. But the russet-haired beauty still lurked in the outskirts of the room, her eyes on him as he passed by.

"Pretty Boy," she called, whistling for his attention. When Damon turned, she tossed a keycard at him. He caught it one-handed, glancing down to see that it was the card for Suite 11. "On the third floor," she told him, then smiled and sauntered away.

Damon didn't wait to watch her go.

Up the stairwell, down the hall, and around the corner in room eleven, he found nothing but a withered corpse waiting for him, and was torn between mind-blowing frustration and pride. She staked the bastard. _Good_, he thought. It was her right to take care of it. Then again, he was at his wit's end and _this_ didn't help. This was _his_ right, _his_ responsibility. Now how was he supposed to make the bastard suffer?

"_Son_ of a _Bitch_." He sighed, staring down at the rotting carcass with a look of defeat.

"Kinda takes the fun out of it, huh?" Nicholas quipped, hovering in the doorway behind him. "Well, come on. The girls will want to be getting on the road." He waited, but Damon made no move to listen. "C'mon, boyo. There's nothing for you here."

"Mm Hm." Damon picked his head up, scanning the room with a furrowed brow. "Just have one last thing to do."

"Yeah? And what's that?"

Damon's only answer was to take a step over the sewage on the floor and cross to the drink cart. He gave a thoughtful onceover to the contents before swiping up a bottle of tequila. Then he popped the lid and upended it, spilling a trail across the room, over the corpse, all the way to the door.

Only then did he look up and meet his friend's gaze. "Got a light?"

Nicholas grinned, dipping into his pocket. "Excellent idea, my friend." He produced a steel Zippo lighter and tossed it at the other vampire. "Just don't go letting Grace know I still smoke."

While flicking his thumb across the igniter, Damon smashed another bottle against the corridor wall then took another in his grip, stepping backward out of the room before he tossed the Zippo in at the rotten body, instantly setting the room aflame.

By the time the two of them made their way out onto the street below, the place was oddly deserted, having cleared out _before_ he'd sparked it. Peculiar, yes. But not enough to have him care what was going on, why they'd taken off and just let him torch the dive. As he stood out on the other side of the street and watched the flames swallow the brick building, Damon felt a fragment of comfort. Yes, he'd have much rather had his hands on Calhoun, alive and able to feel agony. But this, he found, was almost a decent enough consolation. When the neon _Wicked Bliss_ sign shattered in sparks of electricity and shards of glass that flew, he thought Elena would approve.

They returned to the SUV three blocks away to find Elena in wolf form, her slender muzzle resting on Bonnie's lap as the little witch stroked her fingers through the wolf's snowy pelt. Grace was on the other side of her, sandwiching the wolf in the back of the vehicle. The tatters of that forsaken _costume_ lay in ruins over the dingy sidewalk. As Nicholas slipped silently behind the wheel, lest to disturb the passengers huddled in the back, Damon looked in on them from one of the open side windows.

As if she could feel his presence, the wolf's eyes fluttered open, icy clear orbs peering up at him, her mind unreachable, her thoughts a mystery to his striving. He opened his mouth, wanting to tell her . . . _anything_, really. But nothing came.

Resigning to the cards he was dealt this evening, Damon took a step backward, moving up onto the sidewalk and watching as the Cadillac pulled into the street and faded away.

_God_, he thought. _What a mess._


	6. When We Bleed

**Entry 6: When We Bleed**

"Come to repent, my pretty?"

Theresa Latham turned to send her bratty brethren an affronted look. "Why in the world should _I_ be repentant?"

Myles let out a rumbling chuckle, rubbing a hand through the scruff along his chiseled jaw. His shaved head was milky below the rays of moonlight they stood under. "Look around, Latham."

And she did. She gave a perfunctory glance at the rubble beneath her Valentino boots and curled her lip. The foursome was gathered amidst the charred ruins of _Wicked Bliss_, while emergency vehicles filed away into the distance of the city blocks. Myles stood beside her, Kendra behind her, and Luca a few feet away, going through the ashes for anything personal that might have survived. Still, she didn't see how she was the one that should feel guilty for this. So she turned back to him and arched one russet eyebrow. "Your point being?"

Myles looked at her like she was an idiot. "This is your doing, woman."

That widened her eyes. "_Excuse_ me?"

"The first glimpse of a pretty face and you're more worthless than Kendra."

"Hey!" This came from the referred to, sparking the slender Cuban girl's indignation. "I'm sick of those little comments, Myles. You better watch it."

"And what are you going to do?" he taunted, cocking his brow at her, daring her to forget her place.

The young'un puffed up, but before she could find herself in hot water, Theresa slipped between them, hands on her hips. "Myles, perhaps you should find out what you're talking about _before_ you open your mouth."

Myles bared his teeth and snarled at her snide expression, bristling against her cool air of quiet superiority. He started for her threateningly, fully intent upon wringing her neck, but Luca's hand smacked into his chest, keeping the angry vampire at bay. All while Theresa simply smiled, grating him even deeper.

"Children," a patronizing voice resonated around the foursome, slithering between them all in gripping wisps. The dissenting ones disengaged instantly as Sinclair unfolded from the shadows and joined their knitted gathering. "If getting along is beyond your capabilities, maybe a timeout will do you all some good."

Myles's expression was impassive, like a good little soldier, but his gaze still glared daggers into Theresa, making her roll her eyes and huff at his petulant animosity. "Would you please tell them that I was only doing as you asked?"

Myles, Kendra, and even Luca wrenched their attentions toward Sinclair, letting out a chorus of surprised protestations. Ultimately, though, Myles's was the voice that carried over the racket, pitching the other two into silence. "Why would he _ask_ you to help that cad destroy our home?"

Theresa merely moved her shoulders up, rolling her eyes over to Sinclair, who stood beside her, towering a good foot above the petite beauty.

Luca landed a heavy hand on Myles's shoulder, quieting the oncoming accusation. "Sir?" he asked politely. "Is that true?"

Sinclair intently roved his gaze over the four of them before he answered, unapologetic and disinterested. "Yes."

Kendra looked kicked as she hung off of Luca's arm. "But why?" she wailed. "Why would you allow this to happen?"

He only sighed, casting his eyes over the ruins of _Wicked Bliss_. "It was convenient."

"_Convenient_?" Kendra sputtered, looking horrified now.

Sinclair pinched the bridge of his nose. "Control your infant, Theresa. You know what simpering does to my patience."

"She just needs to feed," Theresa said under her breath, crossing to Kendra and shushing her with a tightened grip on the Cuban's carotid artery. "It's been a long night."

"For us all," Sinclair countered. "I don't need excuses."

Theresa glanced over her shoulder, locking their gazes and then offering him a pretty smile. "I know."

Looking into her eyes brought a contemplative expression over Sinclair's handsome features. After a moment, he broke the connection and took in the rest of them. Seeing their awaiting faces all turned on him, he let out a long sigh and slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "This neighborhood's gone to hell," he explained. "It was time to move on."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Up in Mystic Falls, the sun had risen not ten minutes ago and Caroline had been awake since two hours before that. _Crack of Dawn_ didn't even begin to cover it. The rip-away day calendar set on her bedroom desk said: Monday, April 12. The digital clock on her bedside table shined: 5:47 a.m. She had to be at school in a little over an hour. She still had to shower and dress and fix her hair, makeup, and etcetera. But before she could do any of that, she had a mountain of extracurricular homework she had to complete. It was due by Friday, and if she wanted to bump up her average before Finals Week, she had to ace it _all_.

It had gotten to the point where she was finally considering coming clean with Matt. She was blowing him off so much this last week, he was sure to be suspicious. It wasn't that he wouldn't be understanding if she was just upfront with him about how much work she had to do, about how busy she was, how frazzled. She just didn't like talking about her schoolwork. She didn't like people knowing that it mattered, that this was important to her, that she was actually trying. Hard, trying _hard_. If people knew, it just meant that she'd be unable to keep her humiliation to herself when she inevitably failed. Disappointed was something she'd grown used to. She knew how to handle it, just as long as it was private, just as long as nobody was watching her lick her wounds.

If she asked for help, she'd have to admit that she'd slacked off. She'd been stupid and hadn't considered the consequences of taking it easy until those consequences smacked her in the face. She'd tanked her SATs again. That was two years in a row now. Everyone else had already secured their scores for college applications. But not Caroline. No, she only had one chance left, and it would be next year. At the last possible minute, she might be able to pull herself into the black. Otherwise, she was stuck in the red, stuck with this year's scores. The only place that would accept her with those would be a community college.

_God_, how mortifying would that be? What would she tell people? How would she ever look her friends in the face again without the burn of shame tainting her cheeks? And her mother—God, her mother—would never let her live that failure down. For the rest of her life, it would be "See Caroline, this is what happens when you don't work hard for a good life. I always knew you wouldn't be good enough. I just never told you, because that's what good moms do. They let their children wander off, carefree and confident, then look on disappointedly as said children crash and burn."

Plus, she still had to learn the new choreography for that cheerleading tournament at the end of May. The squad had taken a major hit losing both Elena and Bonnie this year. Really, there was just too much to do. It was hopeless. She may as well give up now. _Say bye-bye to that undying dream of attending Wesleyan University like Daddy, Caroline. It is just not gonna happen._

The wavy blonde girl let out a frustrated groan and threw her pencil into the wall before she fell over on top of her desk, pounding her face into her folded forearms. Struggling through a sheet of trigonometric functions and their inverses from her pre-calculus textbook, and all she could do was stress out. "Seriously," she muttered into her book. "I'd rather jab hot pokers through my eyeballs."

The bedside clock ticked to 6 and shrieked a warning through the morning hush of her room, startling the girl upright.

Caroline let the beeping of the alarm carry on, casting a forlorn look down at the unfinished expanse of her paper. All she could see was those blank spaces. Those blank spaces, and the eraser dust that coated everything within a five-foot radius of her workspace. _Not a good sign_, the bitchy voice in the back of her head pointed out. _Maybe I should just pack a bag and get the heck out of here while no one's looking. Seriously, I can be spelunking in the Keys before anyone notices I'm missing._

Speaking of people who've forgotten about her—Caroline reached into the Gucci handbag that hung off the back of her chair and switched on her Nokia, typing out a quick text to Bonnie for the umpteenth time.

She hadn't heard back from either Bennett or Elena since Saturday night. They completely ditched her Sunday morning. She'd texted and called and waited at the Grill for over an hour, expecting them to show up for brunch. Neither did. And neither of her so-called best friends had the decency to return any of her messages, either. _Man_, was she fuming about that.

Long ago had she accepted the fact that she would always be the third wheel in their little trio, but lately, the two of them were taking it to a whole 'nother level with all their secrets and dropping out of cheerleading and completely forsaking Caroline while they went off on their own for God knows what.

First, when it was just Elena that seemed off somehow, she attributed it to her friend joining the "orphans" club. A person doesn't just come out of that kind of mess a-okay right away. She got that. But then what was with Bonnie? What was with the _two_ of them? She'd tried to be patient. She'd tried to understand. She'd made up excuses for every time they blew her off or pulled another disappearing act. But Caroline was fed up. She was tired of always being left out . . . left behind . . . _forgotten_.

When had she become so unimportant? To Bonnie and Elena. To Mom. Heck, the whole world seemed to be overlooking her these days. The only one keeping her head above the water of teenage angst was Matt. And sometimes she had to wonder whether that was only to keep himself from being as lonely these days as he'd be if it weren't for Caroline. Then again, wasn't that the whole basis of their relationship to begin with? Keeping each other company? They were two lonely souls seeking comfort in their fellow forgotten.

But that wasn't enough, not forever. She wanted more. Needed more. She wanted Matt to need her because he needed _Caroline_, not because he needed _someone_. Being honest with herself, she'd have to admit that it wasn't just him, either. She needed to be important again. To all of them.

"_Caroline_!" her mother's stretched-thin voice bellowed through her bedroom door. "Time to wake up, sweetheart."

The blonde girl swiveled around in her chair, hugging a pillow in her lap. "I'm up, Mother."

"I left some cash on the kitchen counter for groceries, okay? I'm headed to the station, probably won't be back in time to make it to the store before closing. So if you could—"

"I'll hit the market on my way home from school," she answered, running a hand through her silky locks, primping dully in front of her vanity mirror.

"Thanks, sweetie. Have a good day at school."

"Yeah," the girl muttered. "I'll get right on that." She dismissed the mirror, finding her reflection too lank to bear. As the muffled sounds of her mother's footfalls faded, Caroline fell onto her back across the width of her bed, arms above her head, eyes glazing over. "What's wrong with me?" she asked the cosmos. _When did I become so mopey?_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Across town at the old boarding house, early morning twilight had brought about an awakening stillness to rival the tranquility of a Tibetan monastery. Or, y'know, it would have had it not been for the swirling energy of restless turmoil that stung the air, lodging in the throats of every conscious person within.

They'd gotten back several hours ago, and Damon was still refusing to go upstairs. He wouldn't go anywhere near Elena, not since she'd told him not to touch her back in Atlanta. She hadn't returned to human form until they'd gotten home, and since then she'd been asleep. So it wasn't her that was putting up the fuss. It was Nicholas.

The upset was written all over Damon's expressly expressionless face. And Nic, trying to uncharacteristically be there for his friend in need, wouldn't quit badgering him. Of course, that led pretty quickly to Damon lashing out, turning and aiming his aimless hostility at the other vampire. In a house full of cranky undead males, it doesn't take much for tensions to boil over into gratuitous violence.

That was what brought Grace out to the second-story landing. She rested her hands over the rich mahogany wood of the balustrade and looking out over the terrace at the two vampires down below, who were throwing each other into furniture like toddlers in tantrums, brawling like children pumped up with super strength. It made her want to smack them both upside the head and tie them in separate corners like they deserved.

Letting her mood carry the momentum she needed for this, the white witch summoned all of the electricity in the air and gathered it at her fingertips. Azure sparks of lightning leapt from her hands, crackling through the house and jolting through the two below, knocking them on their asses as their bodies coiled with a million tiny spasms. Gasping through the convulsions, Damon and Nicholas looked upward. Their eyes were still alight with her azure power.

Through her teeth, she spoke, hiding her thunderous voice in a soft tone. "If you insist on acting like insolent brats and using fists to work out your frustration, then you'll go outside. I won't have you waking anyone in here."

Shaking their heads and panting through the aftershocks, Damon and Nicholas shared a glance, wordlessly debating, before the two rose to their feet and ambled into the foyer.

"After you," Damon said, holding the door open and bowing theatrically.

"No, no," Nicholas rebuffed, mimicking the other one's motion. "After _you_."

"If you insist," Damon returned.

The front door shut with a quiet click, leaving the house to reel in the wake of their absence.

Grace took in a deep breath and, when she let it out, gave into a soft shudder. Fatigue was a fickle thing. Worry even worse. But weariness reigned.

The redhead padded through the darkened hallway, making her way to the crook of the landing where blossoming sunlight streamed in. The sky was still stirring with gray clouds, still building for that storm that never seemed to come. As Damon and Nicholas used each other for distracting punching bags, Grace sympathized. _Sometimes_, she thought wistfully. _Sometimes, I wish I could just pick a fight and let my fists work out all my troubles. Those childish jerks are lucky, darn it._

She couldn't say when or why this had started mattering so much to her, why it hit her so hard, why her empathy for that little wolf girl was so incessant. But at one point or another, what began as simple intrigue, nagging curiosity, turned into a deeper caring. She was invested in this place now, these people. And intuition was telling her that this was not a good cluster of lives to be invested in—too much drama, too much trauma, never enough peace and quiet.

Watching from up above in the stairwell window, she shook her head at them. "_Vampires_," she muttered, turning and heading back up to join the others in the designated bedroom on the third floor. Inside the secluded haven of quiet, a king-sized canopy bed was littered with a very strange assortment of bodies.

Deeply asleep in the very center, Elena rested—lying on her side, knees crooked, and an arm hugging her midriff, the other propped under her head. Her dark mane of curls had dried into a ratty nest of tangles. She still wore the oversized T-shirt her best friend had pulled onto her when she'd come back from animal form in all her birthday suit glory.

Blanketing the bowed length of her back was a shirtless Ben McKittrick, who Grace had seen a time or two with her foresight, which helped her understand just what it was he was doing here. Curled up over Elena's feet was a sinewy wolf, his fur a coat of midnight darkness, his snoring posing a slight irritation. Tyler Lockwood—schoolmate, son of the town mayor, lupine brethren—all this Grace learned from the other one, the lycan, who arrived a few seconds after they pulled into the driveway, having sensed the wolf's innate call for pack.

Adding in the little African-American witch that was strewn alongside Elena, her arms holding the other girl so tight it seemed she was afraid of allowing an escape, and it was most definitely an odd assortment. They all made quite the picture, though, and Grace briefly contemplated snapping a shot of evidence for later with her phone. But ultimately, it just seemed too tacky. After all, who would want to be reminded of why they were all piled into that bed together?

Sighing to herself, the redhead crept silently across the room and bent over Bonnie, pulling a deep-red braid of thread from her pocket. As gently as possible, she slipped the thread around Elena's dainty wrist and tied it there with one tiny knot. "From Gran," she told the sleeping girl in an airy whisper. "It will help you heal."

It wasn't until Grace drew away that she noticed the other witch's eyes open and focused on her. When their gazes met, the teenage witch turned up one corner of her mouth, appreciation glinting in her dark brown irises. _Thank you_, she mouthed before turning her face back into the pillow she shared with Elena and shutting her eyes again.

Grace left them all there, retreating to an armchair in the corner of the room, curling up with a book in her lap, ready to watch over for as long as this would take.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over at the Gilbert house, Jenna let her eyelids drift open, basking in lazy contentment as the morning sunrise cast streaks between the blinds. Alaric went on sleeping soundly behind her, his arm hooked around her waist, her leg curled backward between his calves. Taking a wary glance at the alarm clock on her nightstand, she realized he was going to be late for his first class if she didn't wake him soon.

So as much as she wished she didn't have to, Jenna rolled over onto him, peppering his chest with sleepy kisses until she finally reached his mouth. "Rick," she cajoled, lightly taking his earlobe between her teeth. "_Rick_."

"Hm?" he answered, the only sign that he wasn't dead.

"You have to get up."

That creased his brow. "What is it? What's wrong?" The second his eyes popped open, he was clearheaded and alert, not a single lingering remnant of wherever he'd just been a moment ago. "Jenna?" he called, eyes searching her face for any sign of trouble.

She couldn't help but laugh, burying her face in his chest and the sheets as her chest vibrated with it. "No gun-wielding invader, if that's what you're worried about," she teased. "But if you don't get up soon, you're going to be late."

After craning his neck to see the clock over her, he let out an unhappy groan and fell back to his pillow. "Right," he mumbled in a defeated voice, and then picked his head back up, kissed her quick, and rolled them over, putting her on her back as he swung to his feet. "I'm gonna hop in the shower."

"Go for it," she giggled, propping up on her elbows to watch him disappear into her adjoining bathroom, leaving the door hanging wide open. She sighed dreamily and fell back against the pillows, looking up at the ceiling as she grew thoughtful.

When the sound of running water filled the room, Jenna glanced toward the bathroom door, debating whether she should join him and get him in trouble or not. Instead, she crawled out of bed, shrugged into her robe, and wandered out into the upstairs hall, stopping at the next closed door.

"Hey Jer," she called, slanting against the doorframe as she knocked. "Come on, kiddo. Out of bed or you'll be late for school." When she got no answer, Jenna jiggled the knob, experimenting, then pushed through when she found it unlocked. Her slovenly nephew was stretched out across his bed—socks, boxers, and gray T-shirt—facedown with headphones stuck in his ears as he snored, a spot of drool pooling on his plaid pillowcase. The comforter was in a tangled heap on the floor at the foot of the bed. Jenna couldn't help but smile, chuckling as she plucked the headphones and iPod away from him, dumped them on the cluttered nightstand, then turned back to bend over and jostle him. "Alright, Sleeping Beauty, get a move on."

"_Ugh_," he roused drunkenly, swatting at her. "Lemme Zs 'nuff."

Jenna hesitated, frowning as she tried to decipher his gibberish. Finally, she shook her head and shrugged it off, bending back over to shake him again. "Don't make me get the ice pitcher!" she warned, slugging him in the shoulder, knocking him onto his back.

"No ice water," he mumbled. "I'm waked."

"Your eyes are still closed."

"I'm up. I promise."

Jenna straightened, crossing her arms with a satisfied huff. "Good. Now you can tell me why your sister's bed is still empty."

He waved a delirious hand in the air, eyes still closed, face still slack. "With her boyfriends," he told her. "Take it up with her."

Jenna wandered over to the window, peeking out on the stirring street corner, trying to ignore the frazzled worry that had her rattled. "I would if she'd ever come home."

"Be home today, I'm sure." With that, Jeremy flipped back over onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow to fight the light.

Jenna was too busy dazing to notice. "I know we never technically discussed it, but I don't know how much more of this I can allow. Sooner or later, I'm just going to have to put my foot down." But how did she do that when her niece was more capable of handling her life than Jenna had ever been at dealing with her own? Or at least, her niece talked a good talk. Jenna couldn't personally say whether it chalked up to much more than that. But she had a feeling. Still . . . _Miranda would kill me thrice over if she could see just how well I'm 'parenting' her kids,_ she thought was a despondent sigh, scrubbing her face with her hands as she turned away from the window. "_Uh_! Jeremy Gilbert!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By late morning, the Mystic Grill on Main Street was pretty dead. Not that it mattered if there were only five customers or not. It didn't make a bit of difference for Matt. He still had to call in sick from school so he could handle the place, because Ben hadn't shown up, but rather left a message on the boy's voicemail asking him to manage the Grill for the early shift. _Without_ any explanation, just to point out.

He was supposed to be bussing tables, serving food, sweeping up. _Not_ running the place. And he certainly wasn't supposed to be fumbling out drinks behind the bar, unlicensed and clueless, because there was no one else. In fact, other than Frankie—in the kitchen—Matt was by himself in here, made even worse by the fact that taking up one end of the slick-top bar was Damon Salvatore, drowning his vile mood in alcohol with that foreign buddy of his. He'd taken to helping himself when Matt threw his hands up and walked away.

"She hates me," Damon slurred, slanted across the bar, halfway out of his stool as he hugged the bottle of bourbon. "She fucking hates me."

"As well she should," Nicholas agreed, earning a sudden scowl from the drunken vampire beside him. "What? It's only what you said not five minutes ago."

"I can say it," he snapped. "You can't." He paused then—thinking it over—and his face scrunched. "What're you even doing here? This is none of your business."

"Hey." Nic held his hands up in surrender. "I'm just having myself a drink. It's a free country."

"_Hah_," Damon scoffed, drawing upright to upend his tumbler and slosh back the rest of his drink. When he slammed it down onto the bar, he hunched forward, propping his leather-clad forearms on the smoothed slab of wood. "She's gonna get past this, right?" he asked no one in particular, staring off into the void. "I mean, whatever he did to her—she's not gonna let it screw her up. She's too stubborn for that, too defiant." His brow drew down, creasing deeply as he ran the tip of his tongue over one of his canines, dazing. "_Hell_, if she's let everything I've ever done roll off of her, this one doesn't stand a chance."

Nicholas eyed him quietly, his sandy brow keeping kinked with amusement. "Maybe she will, maybe she won't. Is it even important?"

At that, Damon rounded on him, fisting his hands in the lapels of Nic's jacket. "_Of course_ it's important," he ground out, his tone somewhere between "I'm _this_ close to slugging you again" and "well, _duh_."

Nicholas rolled his eyes at his friend's uncalled-for fervency. Here they were trying to have a civilized conversation, meanwhile Salvatore kept flying off the handle every two seconds. He had a feeling that the alcohol wasn't doing the other any good. "Really?" he challenged at last, adopting an unbelieving expression, making Damon grit his teeth.

"It's important," he declared. "She's important."

"Okay." Nic patiently detached Damon's hands from his clothing, dusting himself off as Damon swung back to the bar and sloshed out another glassful of bourbon. "But if this one's so important, where does that leave your Katherine Crusade?"

The set of Damon's shoulders went rigid again, his jaw clenching as he pointedly kept his gaze straight ahead of him. "One's got nothing to do with the other." Then he paused just long enough to tug another gulp of liquor then smash the tumbler down against the top of the bar. "And I'm getting sick and tired of your prodding. Go drink somewhere else if you're gonna play psychoanalyst."

Nicholas shook his head with a small disparaging sigh. "You do realize that you've transformed into a raging bitch, don't you?"

A moment of stillness went by before Damon sunk down into his barstool, slumping with defeat and resignation as he reeled himself back into some semblance of composure. "Yeah, I realize."

He realized, alright. Realized that he needed to get a grip, and quickly. He was losing his sanity over this, and that just was not acceptable. But other than being royally pissed at everything and nothing, he had no idea how he was supposed to take this. The only alternative he could think of was pulling a Stefan and turning into some pitiful mess of a tortured soul. Yeah, he didn't see _that_ happening any century soon. Damon could brood with the best of them. But that wasn't going to cut it this time. Neither was seething himself into a mindless frenzy, though, which was what he'd fallen back on when he'd come up at a loss for anything better to do.

This just hit _way_ too close to home. After all this time, he thought he'd buried all those nasty sore spots. That suffocating—going out of his mind, so worthless, out of his control—feeling of helplessness. Of not being able to do a damn thing as the woman he loves gets ripped away from him. To know that there was nothing he could do, no length he could traverse, no one he could kill, nothing he could give up to be able to touch her again, to hear her voice, see her face. It was all too déjà vu for him to endure.

Only that it wasn't the same, not at all. This wasn't Katherine. This was Elena. This was completely different. This time . . . _I got her back_.

Then again, in a way he didn't, not really. He was still helpless. It was too late. There was nothing he could do to fix this. So he could see her face, hear her voice, touch her. Deep down inside, it felt as if he had lost her. Maybe not in the same way he lost Katherine. But was it any better? Or was it worse? And more importantly, was this one _really_ irrevocable? Or did it only feel that way?

After an allotted time of silence strolled by, Nicholas considered it appropriate to finally pick back up. "So, you are still planning on getting Katherine out of that tomb, aren't you? I mean, this is what you've been waiting for all these—something, something—years."

"One hundred and forty-five," Damon replied vacantly, swirling a small tornado through his glass of amber liquor.

"Right," Nic said. "That's a hell of a long time to wait for something just to decide to move on when you're finally there."

Damon brought the tumbler to his lips then he set it back down, staring at the swirls within. "I'm not moving on from anything," he informed him. "But how should I even think about that right now when I've got my hands so full with Elena? I've got to figure this mess out first."

"Before you reopen that other mess?" Nic offered helpfully, grinning as he reached over the bar and poured himself a pint of beer from the tap. "Sounds like a decent plan to me."

Damon scrunched up his face again, dangling the crystal glass in front of his eyes. "That's not a plan, Marcellus. That's a: _I've got enough shit to deal with without adding on an epic amount of more _kind of half-ass approach. But what it is most definitively is _not_ a plan."

Nicholas tipped his pint in a toasting gesture. "_Touché_, Salvatore. _Touché_."

Damon rolled his eyes, grimacing. "Have you any idea how lame you are?"

"You're one to talk."

"At least I'm witty."

Nicholas gave his rumpled friend a pointed onceover, cocking his eyebrows. "Normally I'd have to agree. But right now? Not so much."

Damon made a noise of acknowledgment—not quite a rebuff, not really an assent—then threw his head back and upended the last glass from the bottle of bourbon into his mouth, savoring the way it scorched all the way down. But he knew that it didn't matter how drunk he got. Sooner or later, he'd have to go back and face her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back at the boarding house, the wolf girl shifted, pressing her cheek into the pillow, muffling the whimpering sounds that caught in her throat, hitching her breath. The helplessness pressed down on her. Inside of her mind, she was still trapped.

_The room was at once pitch dark yet brightly lit with dancing streams of color. She stood on smooth vinyl floor, littered with garbage, and followed the stream up into the rafters that hung above, where spotlights were fixed. Unadulterated cigarette smoke tainted the air, stagnant and malodorous. She was drowning in it, even as the heavy thump of bass pounded in her ears, bleeding them. The tempo was familiar, something she'd possibly heard on the radio just recently. In fact, it was the only familiarity around her. The rest seemed foreign and distant, a strange world._

_Her body moved, and she had no idea why, or how. She slunk across a narrow walkway, elevated above the room around her, moving in slow motion as if she were not just lazy but underwater as well. Scanning the shadowed crowd, faces were nothing but blank darkness, unformed silhouettes with spotlights of color that swished erratically above their heads. The sight bothered her for some reason, so she looked away, turning her eyes down to watch herself glide._

_On her feet were the most absurd shoes she'd ever seen, gladiator straps that wound like a spider web over the top of her feet, while outrageously high stiletto heels wanted to break her ankles. How was she even walking in these? How come the downturned arch they kept her feet in weren't killing her? How come she couldn't feel anything at all without the distance of a coat of clouds enveloping her, sedating every little sensation? And just who, she wondered, was it that dressed her, because she certainly wouldn't have put herself in this sparkly carnelian halter and leather boyshorts. She looked the epitome of a hussy, a word she had never before associated with herself._

_The "Oh, I see" moment came when the catwalk poured her onto a small circular stage and her palm curled around the slick steel of a pole that came up out of the glittered platform. Mist drifted in whorls around her legs, coming from the vents at the edge of the stage. A strobe light descended, stabbing at her eyes and her mind, making her want to cover her face and huddle on the floor until the assault on her senses went away._

'I told ya, baby. Uh, uh. I told you, baby.'

_Eyelashes fluttering against the intrusive rays, she scanned her audience again, soaking in the blurry figures, the attentive gazes that peered through the shadows of anonymity, until she came across an unshrouded face. _Sinclair_, she realized—that creepy man-boy that gave her his jacket and kissed her hand. She didn't like him watching her, always watching her with those encroaching eyes. She wanted to rub her hands up her body and shiver whenever he looked at her, like clothes and skin weren't enough to hide herself from him—not him, not with those eyes._

_But it wasn't just him. No, not just him. It was the man from the gala, the one that took her, who sat there in one of those luxury booths, staring at her. And she just kept slinking around the pole, gripping it loosely in one hand and slanting, letting herself slide from it, swinging, circling, her every motion languid and sleepy in its grace. Why would she let them watch her? Especially with Damon there, who sprawled over a booth of his own in relaxation, a drink in his hand, his expression vacuous and his dark eyes never straying from her. No intention at all to step in. Couldn't he see that she didn't want to be up here? Couldn't he see that she didn't want to be here at all?_

'It's . . . big cities and bright lights, sleep all day, up all night. Hey baby, I'm a—I'm a rock star.'

_The contrast of a molasses tempo over an upbeat techno melody thrummed through her body while she moved, drawing out the popping of her hips in lazy motions, dancing her arm above her head as her fingers played across the pole, furling airily. She leaned the back of her shoulders against the steel, arching her spine, and let her head fall back, teased locks of hair dripping over her. Why was she giving them this? She didn't want to. She didn't want to be here. But her body moved of its own volition. There was no say left for what she wanted._

_The lights shut down and complete darkness descended, leaving her in a quiet stillness that could only originate from death. As critters crawled over her exposed skin, she knew she had to move. But when she took a step, she felt the ground melt beneath her, succumbing to the weight of her, loosing validity. There was no falling, only fading, until she found herself shuffling hesitantly down a dark tunnel, her hands grazing across the bedrock of wall that closed in around her. Her toes sifted through dirt as she delved deeper, ignoring the trepidation of being confined so breathtakingly within the dank cavern._

"_This way," a disembodied voice resounded through the tunnel. The sound ran chills up her spine, echoing in her ears. "Come closer."_

_Clearness came out of the dark, sureness from that voice and those spoken words—she did not want to listen. She did not want to go any farther into that chilling darkness, near that voice any more, be here any longer. But as her fingers furled, clawing into the bedrock, she knew that there was no escape. She was here forever. No mercy. No salvation. No one was coming for her. And there was no way out._

_The claustrophobia stifled her, squeezing so tightly at her chest that she couldn't take a breath. It crushed her bones, twisting up her insides until she wanted to scream, until she _needed_ to scream. But she couldn't. Her knees gave out and she crouched to the ground, the pressuring weight of her body supported by her feet. She hooked her arms around herself and dug in her fingertips, clutching, trying to stave off the violent trembling._

Elena tore out of her nightmare with a soundless scream, jolting upright as the gasp got stuck in her throat, suffocating her. The ghostly soundtrack of waves crashing into rock filled her ears, heart beating like bruises at the walls of her chest, contracting muscles, crushing her as she writhed inside a room thirteen sizes too small.

She couldn't find oxygen. She couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't hear, or understand. When her stomach heaved, she narrowly managed to keep herself from doubling over and retching. The world spun, making her eyes water.

Hyperventilating, she flung herself up off of the bed, away from the countless weights shrouding her, leaping out of the confining cage of bodies. Her feet collided with the floor and before the sharp thump of impact could resound through the silent room, she was running, fleeing, escaping—striving for the ability to breathe.

Elena went for where she could see sky, where light and wind emanated, which turned out to be a balcony with the French doors set wide open. Without thought, she propelled herself out onto the stone to unhesitatingly vault over the wrought-iron balustrade in her way. Midair, she stretched out and felt the tingle of magic overtake her, shifting her from girl to wolf form. Completion occurred a bare second before her paws hit the ground, landing in the grassy yard below, only to sprint away as fast as her four legs could take her, disappearing into the haven of the woods.

Up in the bedroom above, a lycan, a lupine, and two witches stared at the open balcony doors. When a sparrow landed on the railing, tweeting, they looked around at one another, wondering. Three sets of eyes turned to the black wolf frozen at the foot of the bed, their meaning conveyed simply. The wolf tossed his head, glancing around, tucking his ears back on his head. He was met with unfaltering stillness, to which he let out a heavy sigh and ambled to his feet, pouncing out to the balcony and following after the white wolf.

Ben swung his legs over the edge of the bed, snatching up the dark T-shirt that draped over the nightstand and tugging it over his head. "Is she—"

"Yes," Grace interrupted from her spot in the corner, hands folded in her lap.

"And he'll—"

"Yes."

Ben cast a long look out the nearest window, taking in the fringe of the forest around them. "I better get into work." He came to his feet, stepped into the shoes he'd strewn by the door and then headed out, only to pause in the hallway and look in. "Tell her—"

"I will," Grace promised.

Ben gave her a thoughtful look, which turned wry before he spun and jogged his way out of the house, leaving the two remaining women alone.

Feeling awkward, Bonnie shifted carefully to the edge of the bed, coming to her feet and releasing her hair from the clip she'd corralled it up into before she'd lain down. "I . . . guess I better go. If Elena comes back here, would you call me? Let me know?"

"Sure," Grace murmured softly, climbing from her armchair and setting her book aside. "But you don't have to run out the door this minute."

Bonnie gestured over her shoulder as she made her way across the room. "I should get to school."

"You're already down for a sick day," Grace countered, tucking some ruby locks behind her ear. "Like I said, you don't have to rush off. I know you're uncomfortable. Why wouldn't you be? But Elena's told me a lot about you," she admitted. "We've many things in common, lots to talk about. Mainly," she added when Bonnie tried to get out the door, "your craft."

That stopped the younger witch, making her turn back with a wary but interested expression. "What do you mean?"

Grace offered her a patient smile and moved to her side, ushering Bonnie out into the dim corridor. "Come on, I'll bring you down to the kitchen for some tea."

The dark-skinned girl's brow furrowed but she let herself be led downstairs anyway. "I don't drink tea."

Grace's smile turned secretive. "You'll learn to appreciate it."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because it's good for your power," she explained. "You're magic stems heavily from extrasensory perception above anything else. Certain types of tea will induce the openness of your mind, the way you receive that magic. Caffeine is one of those hindrances, something that exacerbates the subjectivity. You have to be mindful of how you perceive what you're given. There are too many things around here that risk discounting what you sense, especially since you're a naturalist like me, one whose power comes from the bloodline. That makes us predisposed to contamination."

Bonnie shook her head, even as Grace deposited her on a barstool at the kitchen island. "Grams didn't tell me that."

"Does she know?"

That made Bonnie's eyes narrow. "A lot more than you, most likely. She's a very wise woman. So don't go—"

"Easy there," the redhead cut in, giggling and holding up her hands. "I meant no offense. I was only asking."

But Bonnie was still bristled, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, don't. Grams would know something like that. She probably just didn't think I needed to know."

Grace pursed her lips, nodding agreeably. "Okay." But she couldn't help wondering what else the little witch's grandmother didn't think she needed to know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dusk came and went for the lonely. It was dawn that was ushering itself in across the horizon before Elena finally emerged, slinking out of the woods for only the sparrows to witness. The cushioned pads of her paws sunk in the grass as she made her way across the yard that circled the boarding house, the dew that clung to the green blades wetting her snowy undercoat. Though she still lingered in animal form, the wolf soul had fallen to sleep hours ago, leaving the girl alone with her thoughts.

She was plagued with a quiet mind, unable to keep from going over and over the latest dream—the one that found her waking in an open casket, laid six feet deep in earth, soil staining her white summer dress. She remembered the way it had felt to dig into the dirt, clutching fists full of ground as she'd scrambled up out of the grave, finding herself in a vast cemetery with nothing but empty holes pervading the valley. If she were in human form, she might look down at her nails for evidence of all that digging she couldn't stop thinking of. She was beyond tired, nearly dead on her feet, making the sight of the old manor an intense relief. Every single time she slipped, letting herself be lulled by the cadence of the forest and darkness, she found herself trapped again, caged in her mind, aware of the nightmares but unable to wake, no matter how exhaustively she struggled.

Padding tentatively, she made her way onto the front veranda, only to find the front door left open for her—not hanging wide, but left unlatched nonetheless. Looking up at the ornate structure—the arch of paned glass at the very top and the thick richness of the mahogany wood—she let out a shuddery sigh.

Why did she always come back here? This wasn't her home. Yet, breaking out of the trees to see it here waiting for her in the rising morning light had instilled that sense of relief inside of her, the instinctive knowing that made it feel as if she'd at long last made her way home. She wished she felt differently. She wished her ragged loping had brought her to the Gilbert house, the place she was born and raised, where the remnants of her family resided, storing all of her material belongings. But that place never felt as if it was waiting for her anymore. It felt secondary . . . as if, even though she was welcome, she wasn't missed. One way or the other, her legs always carried her here.

At the moment, Elena was too fatigued to respond to that realization with anything other than resignation. So, giving it no more thought, she nosed her way through the front door and padded quietly inside, finding the foyer and entrance corridor dim and silent. As a wolf, she paused in the long stretch of hallway to listen. But she sensed his presence before she actually heard him in the stairwell. If her brain had been working, it would have told her to cut and run. To keep away. But she was too exhausted, too numb. And her body was moving on its own, bringing her to him, making her eyes flutter with that warmly familiar tingle that rippled through her whenever he was near. _At least some things never change_, she thought.

She found him slouched on the crooked landing between the first and second floor, completely sloshed with his arms propped on his bent knees, carelessly cradling a nearly emptied bottle of tequila. All around looking like hell. _So this is Damon wallowing_, she mused wryly as she made her way up the carpeted stairs that separated them.

The smell of the tears that stained his face carried no sting of salt as a human's would. Crossing to him slowly, she took note of the raw eyes that stared into space somewhere above her, the ruffled head of dark hair, the overall haphazard quality to him, and she let out a put-upon sigh.

"Didn't think you were coming back," he said in a dull voice, bringing the bottle to his lips, wetting them. His gaze was still off center.

Elena gave into the urge humming in her throat, whining evanescently as she laid down across his lap, forcing his legs straight and his arms up as she crossed her ebony-tipped paws over his thigh and set her chin on them. She was mad, and irritated, and hurt. But right now, she was just tired. So she pushed all the rest of their baggage aside and shut her eyes, giving in to rest with a contentedly heavy sigh.

Damon looked down at her as if she were some sort of foreign concept strewn across his lap, his arms still held in the air, bottle dangling, and muscles stiff. The crease in his brow deepened, his bloodshot eyes roving over the wolf on him as his started to thaw. The fatigue that seemed to go soul deep in her was something he could relate to, something that swept through him, bringing his arms down with hesitance, setting the bottle aside, folding his upper body over her.

He let his eyes drift closed as he furled his hands over her, burying his face in her silky fur. The dampness that clung to her coat only pronounced the scent of night-blooming jasmine that permeated her. The scent, the touch, the warmth of her was all an embodiment of everything that plagued him, the source of his turmoil—the guilt, the confusion, the intensity. In all his many years, he'd never felt such a loose grasp on his sanity.

"Sorry," he heard himself murmur brokenly into the plush layer of her pelt, sleek ebony over a pure snow whiteness. "Sorry . . ."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jeremy was coming out of the house, strutting down the porch steps and out onto the pathway with a full-to-the-brim backpack slung over his shoulder, when he spotted Bonnie's bright-blue Prius parked at the curb. As he neared, the girl sitting behind the wheel rolled down her window.

"Hey," he said, greeting her with a crooked grin as he knelt at the curb and propped his arms on her windowsill.

Bonnie offered him a slow-spreading smile, tilting her head. "Hey back."

"So what're you doing here? I thought you were gonna spend the day with Elena again."

The solemn cast to her heart-shaped face returned. "She . . . needed to be alone." Then she forcibly brightened, surprised at how easy it turned out to be. "But I figured you could use a ride to school?"

Jeremy chuckled, glancing around them. "Definitely," he answered. But when he moved to rise, she reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, dragging him back down just as she slanted through the open window and caught his lips in a sudden kiss. Just like that, the spark that had lingered between them exploded.

"Wow," Bonnie whispered when she finally pulled away, breathing out in a gush of laughter.

Jeremy's returning grin grew proud. "What brought that on?"

She gave him a little smile, tapping her fingertips against the wheel. "A little talk with someone I have a _lot_ in common with."

"Well, whatever they said . . . tell 'em thanks for me."

"I will," she murmured, letting her eyes drift away from him as she focused on that tingle that coursed through her at his closeness. "Now get in."

They were on their way to school, turning her shiny little Prius onto Laurel Avenue, when Jeremy finally spoke up from the passenger side. "You never did tell me, you know."

Fiddling with the radio dial, Bonnie flicked him a distracted sidelong glance, furrowing her brow. "Huh?"

"You know," he prodded, staring at her with a blank look. "At the gala, before all the rigmarole, you were trying to tell me something. It sounded bad."

Bonnie let her hand drop away from the radio, the other curling tightly around the steering wheel as she tensed up. "Oh, right. That."

"If you don't wanna talk about it, that's cool, I guess." He shrugged, but his eyes were still inquisitive. "But, you know—"

"Hey Jer," she cut in, trying to sound nonchalant, even though her throat seemed a bit swollen. "That was a long night, a lot going on and stuff. I was probably just overreacting. It's really no big deal, I don't think."

Jeremy's expression solidified then into a cast of keen expectance. "Funny," he said. "'Cause that's not what it seemed like."

"I _told_ you," she stressed, gripping the wheel. "I was just being a drama queen."

The sense of suspicion that had overtaken Jeremy's curiosity made his jaw set. But he waited until she'd pulled the Prius into the school lot and shifted into park before he let out a rejoinder. "If it's not a big deal, then why are you being so frigid about telling me?" He twisted his body in his seat to face her, snatching the keys from the ignition to keep her from escaping, like the look on her face said she wanted to do. "You were seriously freaked Saturday night. And that bit about swearing to keep my mouth shut. Well, I did that already. So it's your turn. Spill."

Bonnie's eyebrows jumped up. "I thought you weren't going to push."

"I hadn't planned on it," he retorted sharply. "But with the way you're acting, I can't just forget about it. What did you do, Bon? Why are you worried that Elena's going to find out? You said you might've set something into motion. I wanna know just what the hell that means."

"I was being a drama queen!" she snapped, tossing her hands up before swinging around to face him, bringing one knee up onto her seat. "_Look_, when Grams wouldn't help me find a way to get Elena away from those vampires, I went searching for myself. I found this incantation in one of the spellbooks she keeps hidden from me. I knew she must've locked all that stuff up in a hope chest for a reason, and I knew it was stupid to dig in there on my own, but I did it anyway!" she ranted. "I can't believe I went through with it. What was I thinking? All I could see was Elena's dead body lying in the grass and Stefan and Damon standing over her. I knew what that meant and I knew that I couldn't let it happen. But trying to talk to her about it would've only drawn a wedge between us. She wasn't going to listen to me, not about this. It was the only way!" Bonnie slapped her hands over her scrunching face, letting out a sharp whoosh of air. "At least, that's what I was convinced when I was performing the incantation."

"_Bonnie_," Jeremy said when she quieted, very slowly, drawing the syllables out as if he were speaking to a child in the throes of a tantrum. "Take a chill pill, and then start again, because not a word of that made sense to me."

The dark-skinned girl reluctantly lowered her hands into her lap and looked up at him, her expression ridden with conflict. Gnawing on the inside of her lip, she gave him the most concise explanation she could manage. "As long as Elena has a Salvatore on each arm, she's doomed. That's what all of my dreams, all my premonitions, what everything has been trying to warn me of."

"No arguments here," he added with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. His big sister would do what she wanted. She was the caretaker, the protector, the head of the family—not the other way around. Meaning she could handle her own choices. Still, he couldn't try to say that hanging around a set of begrudged bloodsucker brothers was going to be good for her health in the long run. But . . . it was something else that just didn't sit right with him. "So you tried to use magic to get her away from them?"

"Yes," she replied evenly, wordlessly daring him to judge her for it. When he just stared, expectant and unhurried, she let out a resigned sigh and continued. "There was this old incantation in one of Grams' books that was supposed to 'Reveal the truth for Elena' or something to that effect."

"The truth?" he echoed dubiously.

Bonnie fell back against the driver's door, heaving another sharp sigh. "I thought it might make her see what I see, the truth about her relationships with Stefan and Damon, how being involved with them can only lead to bad things happening to good people," she stressed, staring out the windshield at the sunny sky while students meandered in mismatched flocks past her car. "But ever since I cast it, since the very _moment_ wind whipped up and those candles blew out, I've had this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach."

Jeremy squinted at her, trying not to laugh. "Some sort of witchy intuition, then?" he asked, earning a halfhearted scowl that was short-lived. "Seriously though, this is what you're freaking out over? Even if it doesn't work the way you wanted it to, what's the worst this thing can do? Elena already knows all our secrets. So she'll find out a few more. Or she'll realize she was happier as a cheerleader than an emo girl. Is any of this worth you begging for worry-wrinkles?"

Silence descended over them as Bonnie gave him a long look of disbelief. "You don't get it." She shook her head, unfurling her leg to nudge him with her ballet shoe. "Something went wrong," she told him in a dire voice, trying to beat understanding into his head. "Whatever it was, things are about to get a lot worse because of it. And it's one hundred percent _my_ fault."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Coming back to human form wasn't nearly as dreadful as Elena had thought it'd be. She'd put it off for as long as possible, because she'd felt that the longer she could go without it, the easier it would be to accept the girl's form again. Like maybe if she was gone from it long enough, everything would have time to . . . go back to normal. That didn't even make sense in her head. Yet it was the only way she could describe it for herself. She'd been worried that once she came back, she'd feel _off_ somehow, as if that body had changed.

_Absurd_, she chided herself, rising on two shaky legs in one of the upstairs bathrooms at the boarding house. She planted her sweaty palms on the cool countertop and used her elbows to help her legs regain that natural balance. She'd never stayed in wolf form for so long before. It left her a bit disoriented, lightheaded and untrusting of her old body. _No_, not her old body—this was still who she was, how she belonged. She just had to let things settle. _Give it time_, she told herself. _Once some has passed, it won't feel so weird._

As she stood bare naked before the angles of mirrors around the room, Elena let her eyes rove hesitantly over the reflections of herself, looking for evidence that she was somehow different, something that might justify how strange and out of touch she was feeling. It was almost . . . surreal. But her body was unmarked. Every wound had healed—every scar that lingered only from her previous life, the one where she was just an ordinary girl with ordinary troubles and ordinary days that went by just the same as the ones that came before. There was no going back there. _Ever_. That girl died. That life died with her. So what was the use of thinking of it anymore?

"It is what it is," she murmured to the girl in the mirror, who looked back at her with unfocused eyes of glinting hazel and chapped lips.

The ceramic floor was chilly and slick beneath the flats of her feet as Elena padded out into the dimming hallway. She made her way through the first bedroom door she came across and tracked down a bureau of attire. She grabbed a billowy pair of flannel bottoms and a white undershirt. It was a man's, so she had to tie the drawstring tight to keep the pants on her hips and the shirt really swallowed her whole. It was all soft against her skin, ethereal almost, and the familiar scent filled her olfactory senses with a rippling of comfort. Not all was wrong in the world. In fact, the world was just fine. It was Elena that was offbeat, who'd forgotten the tune. She'd never felt so bizarre in her entire life.

Clothed, the girl left the sanctity of the second floor behind and tiptoed her way downstairs, moving light as a feather to accommodate the feeling of being unsubstantial all of a sudden. The house had been quiet and lifeless all day. Weren't there others who were staying here? The cavernous enclosure wasn't supposed to be so lifeless. But the others were gone. Out there in the real world, while she existed in this unreal place, a crossing of dimensions keeping her enveloped in here. Only she wasn't alone. So she went looking for him, idly scanning her eyes across the sprawling interior of the house as she went.

Ultimately, she found herself stepping through the sliding glass door, out onto the rear veranda—a cage made of brick with openings that splayed a vast landscape of greenery and wildlife before her sight. There in the corner of the brick cage, she found him. The rickety porch swing tried to hide him, but it was useless.

"Are you going to have to go through your whole beverage cellar before you decide you've had enough?" she asked mildly, moving incrementally toward where he was propped against the half a wall of brick that stood between them and the massive backyard.

"Quite possibly," he retorted in a slurring voice, thick and syrupy. He was concentrating on the cluster of sycamore trees just beyond the oak ridge, purposefully keeping away from her. Not that she minded.

"Alcohol is a depressant, you know. That's not helping you," she added, turning and hopping up to perch on top of the brick wall, letting her bare feet dangle and her damp hair cascade across her back. The brewing wind caught the tips of those dark tresses, making them dance.

When she turned back, he was staring at her. "I . . ." he started below his breath, a whispery sigh that tequila and wallowing clung to. "Are you . . ."

Elena slowly lifted her eyebrows for him, pressing her sore lips together as she blinked. "Am I . . . ?"

Damon shook his head, like shaking off a fallen coat of snow. "You seem . . . You . . . Never mind."

"Okay," she said with vacancy before shifting to look out at the sunbeams that danced across the emerald grass.

But then his cold hand came down on top of hers, pinning her palm to the brick, no matter whether his touch was less substantial than a feather's tip. A sharp intake of breath startled her, and she rushed to slip away from his grasp, which wasn't really even a grasp, but more of a ghostly reach. A part of her wanted to fall over the wall and run back into the forest just so that he wouldn't reach for her again. But a bigger part of her understood that the tingle that awakened her nerve endings wasn't unpleasant. Rather, it was welcoming, which made it all that much worse when she had to pull away.

"Don't do that," she said carefully through her teeth, averting her eyes as she slithered down onto her feet, drawing away from the wall, away from him. "You don't get to do that."

"Elena . . ."

At the sound of his voice, she came to a reluctant halt at the sliding door, hand frozen against the glass. Letting her head hang, she gave a shuddery sigh and straightened the slumping set of her shoulders. There was no point in running away again, she realized. This was where she always came back to, one way or the other. So she might as well turn around and face him. Which was exactly what she did, lifting her chin but not her eyes and keeping her hold on the door handle as it dug into the small of her back.

"I haven't forgiven you," she confessed for him, her voice flat. "I don't know how."

Damon let the bottle in his hand drop over the edge of the wall. It landed in the grass on the other side, its impact muffled. He then took a measured step backward and leaned himself up against one of the brick support beams that kept the outreaching eaves above their heads. All without ever taking his eyes from her. "Tell me."

Elena's eyes flicked up at that, her lips parting and her brow furrowing deeply. A layer of her casing dissolved, and the words came before she could decide to change her mind. "I wanted you to save me," she admitted hollowly, still not looking at him. "Do you know what that's like? To love someone who wants to hurt you. Who wants to make you suffer?" She stopped then, pausing, pressing her lips in a thin line as she swallowed. She fought the inevitable bevel of her voice, pointlessly. Her eyes began to shine even as she looked over to meet his steady gaze. "And then when you do . . . to still hope that he'll save you."

He crossed the distance between them in slow strides, letting her eyes search his own as she waited, looking for an answer he couldn't give her. There were no words to fix this, none that he knew of, none that would make a difference. And though he knew that it was unfair, he closed the space between them and didn't stop until he could feel the heat of her body permeate him, because he needed to touch her. There was this primitive impulse inside him wanting to take over, promising that so long as he could still touch her, feel the reality of her beneath his fingertips, they would be all right.

Her eyes flickered down to his mouth when he licked his lips, as parched as hers, and her body began to hum ever so slightly—a reaction she'd grown accustomed to recently. But when he dipped to her, her heart leapt up into her throat, suffocating her. Grimacing softly, as if she were in some sort of physical pain, Elena averted her face.

Crestfallen yet unsurprised, a long sigh escaped him, and he let his face drop to the curve of her neck, inhaling deeply then. She let her eyes flutter closed and her brow knit as she struggled to breathe easy. It was impossible, because she was drowning in his proximity. She held still, stiff and tense, frozen until he finally took his fill and pulled away, dropping down to sit against the weatherboard, propping his arms on his knees as he brought them to his chest. Elena's eyes opened, finding him there, and she let out the breath of air she'd held so sharply.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked, his voice slurring again as he mumbled, dropping his head back against the weatherboard with a soft _thump_.

Elena felt a sudden rush of incredulity ripple through her, making her drop to her knees down in front of him. "_Something_," she ground out vehemently, bristling at his monotony—_the self-centered sociopath_. Her palm was swiping across his jaw before she knew what she was doing, and when she pulled it back, her entire hand was singing with the sting of it. "_Anything_!"

Jostled by the impact of her swing, Damon turned his face back to hers, his glistening crystalline eyes latching onto her wounded glare. Even through the quick streak of tears that flooded from her, Elena recognized the broken look that came over him, which was the only reason she didn't hit him again when he finally answered. "Something . . . Anything."

Unable to take it, she turned away, rising to her feet, practically wrenching herself away from him. She pressed her pelvis to the gritty brick wall and gazed out at the bright landscape stretching before her, giving him her back, crushing the bottom of her trembling hands into the brick until she felt her skin scrape raw.

"_Elena_," he called, startled by the tang of blood that hit the air.

She hung her head, shaking it from side to side as layers of her dark curls swayed, curtaining her face. _Leave_, she told herself. _Hop the wall. Go and don't look back._ But when she went for it, she found herself unable to move. Not that way. Not right now. She knew she should. She just . . . couldn't. Not when she was feeling so desperate, so fragile. As if, should she take a step outside this little world, she might never be able to come back in. She might be stranded . . . out there . . . on her own. It seemed so distant, so departed. Not like in here, where she knew who she was and where she was standing . . . and who she was standing with. However mad she was at him. However much wounded bitterness she held in her heart this moment.

The sensible part of her mind demanded she go. He'd done her wrong. He'd proven when it was most important just how much she was worth. And it didn't amount to much, not when it counted, not to more than his own insecurities. So though there was a part of her that wanted to walk away, to resolve herself and sever the connection to what had wounded her, there was no possible way that she could take that step. The stir of stormy sentiment roiling inside of her was inconsequential when compared to the weary ache of longing that had her enveloped. A longing for this to all fall away. To undo and reassemble until she was proper again, until she could go back to the way it was before.

Then again, there was another sliver of her soul that was beginning to feel as if none of this mattered as much as it seemed to. Like if she only gave it time, the fading would begin, and it would be rapid. What if what she was feeling was set out of proportion? What if she could let it settle and come to realize that none of this had to matter as much as it wanted to. It was trying to drag her down, sweep her into the undercurrent, take hold of her and refuse to relent. But what if she could reach the surface and take a breath? What if all she had to do was breathe, and resolve to let the weight pressing over her fade into one more manageable? Could that be done if she set her mind to it? Would she want to? Or was this just something she had to suffer through to see that it was somehow worth it in the long run? There was no way to know for certain. It was her choice, a decision for her and her alone to make. One she couldn't—not now, not when she was trembling with repression. Either way, whatever the answer turned to be, she didn't want to be anywhere but here. And that was a feeling that overrode all the rest.

So with a sigh of acceptance, Elena let her palms fall away from the biting brick. She took in a long breath, gathering herself into a figurative little ball. It was precarious, this ledge she crossed. But she wasn't afraid. One thing she was _not_ anymore was afraid. She was only tired. Dead tired of this nonstop struggle. Sometimes, she just needed simplicity.

That was why she told him, "I wanna hate you." Her voice was so whispery and low that, even with his sensitive hearing, he had to strain to make her out. She was vehement, and she was sad, and she was mad, but there was no hatred coming from her. Only more weary acceptance.

"I know you do." He was quiet and wary, nearly void.

Letting out another shuddery breath, somewhere between a violent gasp and a choked sob, Elena swiveled slowly around and crossed the distance between them, moving an inch at a time, as if a part of her was still resisting. But that resistance was nothing compared to the resolve of her weary decision, her need for relief.

Anything for that simple and pure relief.

She dropped to her knees and crawled into his lap, banishing second thoughts. His arms came around her in an instant, trapping her. Not that that mattered. She was clinging to him with all of her tremulous strength. And as his hand smoothed over her hair, stroking, she burrowed her face into the cool hollow of his throat and let herself shatter into a string of breathless sobs.

Dizziness swept over her at the prolonged hyperventilation, so severe that she had to screw her eyes shut and practically faint as the nauseating sensation rippled through her. Even that couldn't ease her manic sobbing, though it did subside eventually, after she'd endured, leaving her in a feeble state of illness that drew an ache into her bones.

Time passed by before Elena could breathe again—before she had let out every wisp of despair, every sliver of despondency, and chased away the tremors of affliction that she had kept so tightly bottled up, afraid of not knowing what would be left of her once she finally let go. She let it out then felt it settle inside of her, the resultant calm that rose from the disorienting storm. Her chest eased from the panicked heaving as she declined from her fit of expression. Even then, though, it was a slow process that left her shaky and weakened.

"_I wanna hate you_," she murmured again, sounding breathy and all but broken, digging her fingertips into the corded muscle of his back as she clutched at him.

Damon tunneled his hands through her hair, sliding tendrils through his fingers as he pressed his mouth to her temple once. "Can you tell me?" he asked, and then rested his chin on the crown of her head as her quivering died out.

She swallowed, feeling resignation take hold. "The drug . . . was like a muzzle on my mind," she began softly, letting her body melt against his, the worst of the tension dissipating as she willed it. "Like a thousand tons of ocean forcing me down. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get myself to the surface . . ."

"You don't have to," he said when she fell silent.

Elena shook her head, and curled further into him, arching her spine against the arm he hooked around her waist, pressing reassuringly against the width of her back. "When it finally wore off, all I wanted was to go back under. I guess that's why the wolf protected me from the worst of it," she confided, nuzzling her cheek against the soft fabric of his shirt. Her ragged breathing was lessening, almost where she didn't feel like she was drowning anymore. Still, that prickly ache that pressed down on her soul was ever-present. "She was doing what I wanted, what I asked for, trying to keep me asleep. It even worked . . . for a little while," she whispered, letting his chest muffle her words, pretending that maybe he wouldn't hear her, because she had to say it. "I've never felt so helpless in my life. So . . ."

"You're not broken," he said, presuming. "Just . . ."

"Damaged?" she concluded, her voice taking on a lilting note of laughter.

"Well, yeah." Damon's responding laughter sent vibrations rising from his chest into her, tickling. "But that's been true for how long now?"

"A few years at least," she said, drawing out a soft chuckle. She then rolled to press her back into his chest, letting him mold around her as she scrubbed at her face, destroying the evidence of her breakdown.

A little while later, they moved onto the padded porch swing, and stayed that way for an indeterminable amount of time, letting the cicadas awaken around them and the sparrows go to bed. When the setting sun was at its harshest, he hooked an arm under her knees and swept her up, carrying her into the house.

In the quiet darkness of his bedroom, while she was tucked safely into his side, curled around him, her hands still fisted in the material of his shirt to keep him there, Damon felt his guard dissipate.

"I should have protected you," he confessed into the deafening silence of the bedroom, making her whimper softly in her sleep and squirm closer. He smoothed is hand up and down her arm, encircling the slender limb with one hand. "I was too busy with myself. Too deluded." His eyes moved to her upturned face, taking in the silvery hue of moonlight across her flesh, the stark burgundy of her mouth, the dark flutter of her eyelashes. "I hurt you and then I just let you get taken from me."

Cradling her to him now, he couldn't figure out how he'd gotten in this deep without realizing the ramifications. If he'd accepted what was happening to him earlier, none of this would have transpired the way it had.

It was too late now.

"_I haven't forgiven you,"_ she'd told him. _"I don't know how."_

He didn't want to think of what would happen come the harsh light of morning, when reality set back in for her. He couldn't imagine he'd be getting too many more chances to feel her like this—lying against him, entwined, _clinging_ to him, even in her sleep. As if she _needed_ him, even after everything that had happened. _Yeah_, he thought with a rueful sigh. _Come morning . . ._

"I'm sure you're wishing Saint Stefan were here," he mused hollowly, pressing his mouth to the delicate bridge of her nose, careful to not wake her. He rested his brow against hers and shut his eyes, sighing softly to himself. "He'd know what to do to make things right." And if anyone ever found out he'd said that, they'd be deader than doornails.


	7. Love and Other Drugs

**Entry 7: Love and Other Drugs**

The storm that had spent the last six days brewing finally broke, stirring the murky sky as a hammering downpour assailed the small world. It scattered thunderous clashes and sharply crackling strikes of lightning in all directions. The wind didn't whistle. Instead, it _howled_ with the ferocity of a pack of wolves, moaning and screeching against the stretches of woodland that wrapped around the town.

The tempest's symphony was enough to make a person dizzy.

But Damon wasn't paying the damn thing any attention to begin with, so his dizziness couldn't be blamed on the weather. No, that fault lied with the array of emptied bottles left discarded around the boarding house.

He was moving so slowly this morning that it took him nearly fifteen minutes to go around the entirety of the place, picking up the trash and tossing it carelessly into a reinforced plastic bag. He wasn't worried about the shatter of glass waking Elena. If the storm hadn't bothered her, nothing would.

When he'd cleared the lingering clutter, he trudged down to the lower levels and dug into one of the storage rooms, searching for furniture to replace all the ruined tables and fixtures that had had to be thrown out over the last few months. The stairwell banister was still shredded in spots, but the splintered pieces had already been collected, so that was as far as he was willing to trouble with it. The rest he'd leave for Stefan.

"We're going out," Grace announced suddenly from the foyer when he made his way up into the main corridor carrying a particularly dusty end table and reading lamp. "Be back in a bit."

"Do I look like I care?" he countered, arching a dark eyebrow as he brushed by her.

Grace pivoted on one heel, watching him walk away. "Not particularly, no. But I am an eternally considerate person, so you'll just have to cope."

He shot her a disinterested glance over his shoulder. "Don't hesitate to forget your way back."

"Don't get your hopes up," she drawled, sending him an amused look before spinning and heading for the door, where Nicholas waited, looking beyond bored and not paying a bit of attention to either of them.

When the purr of her Prius's engine melded into the sounds of the storm, Damon let out a long sigh and dropped to a leather loveseat, a worn rag held loosely in his hand. His eyes strayed away from the table and lamp between his knees, roving to one of the arched oriel windows that loomed above, streaming in glimmers of grayed light.

"_What are you doing out here?"_

_Damon shifted on the grass, looking over his shoulder to spot her coming out of the house. A sheet from his bed swaddled her body haphazardly, her hands at her shoulders to keep it up. His eyes scrolled down to her bare feet as she padded gently across the yard to where he lay._

"_Just resting my ears," he murmured, grinning at the confused look she shot him as she lowered herself down, bringing them hip to hip. "You know that your snoring could put a foghorn out of business?"_

"_Uh!" The way her mouth dropped open was worth the lie. "I do not snore!"_

_Damon kept his expression unaffected with a practiced ease. "Are you sure?"_

_She started to say something—protest, no doubt—when she suddenly faltered, a look of uncertainty flickering across her moonlight-pale face. "I . . ."_

_Her lips pursed together before she could finish, and he lost his grip, letting out a string of laughter, making her eyes narrow accusingly, all uncertainty fleeing as she wiggled a hand free of her sheet-cocoon to smack at his shoulder._

"_Seriously, though," she said, flicking a look around them at the shadowed edges of the encroaching woods. "What's going on?"_

_Damon gave her a put-upon look, then flopped onto his back in the grass and dragged her with him until they were lying side by side, eyes on the inky sky. "Nothing is going on, Elena. You need to relax."_

"_Oh, I do?" she challenged, lilting her brow at him._

"_Contrary to popular belief, disaster does not in fact strike every three seconds."_

"_That's news to me."_

_He turned his head to look at her, slipping a hand into one of hers and twining their fingers. The contact of skin on skin against the cool night's breeze sent frissons rippling through him. But it got her eyes focused on him, so he held them clasped. "You don't have to be so worried. Or suspicious," he added with a quick quirk of his lips._

"_I just might believe that if we can make it more than a month without something going horribly wrong."_

"_It's a bet than," he quipped, and without taking his eyes from hers, Damon reached out with his free hand and plucked a blooming red rose from one of the wild rosebushes that sprawled through the yard, offering it up to her with one of his most melt-worthy expressions._

_Elena stared at him for a long moment, not melting. But he held out until she gave in, releasing a small sigh and taking the rose from him, her solemn eyes burning deep, unsettling his disaffected calm._

_She let a thorn prick her fingertip as she cradled the flower's stem, not flinching, only catching her lower lip softly between her teeth when a drop of blood trickled down to her palm. Even still, she just kept staring at him, looking as if she was seeing so much more than there actually was._

"_If you say so," she whispered at last, resting her cheek against the corded curve of his shoulder._

_He spent the rest of the night slipping into reveries, watching her and wondering what was going on inside that head of hers._

Obviously, he'd lost that bet, because not even one week later, the night of the gala screwed that theory all to hell.

With an irritable huff, Damon heaved himself up from the loveseat and just barely resisted the urge to kick the table away from him. He had to stop acting out so destructively, he'd decided. And to start with were the little things, like kicking tables when something frustrated him.

Small steps were something he could handle. After all, this was his decision, no one else's. He didn't _have_ to. He wanted to. He _needed_ to. He didn't want to keep hurting her.

"_Well. Don't you just look the pretty picture of normal," she teased, sauntering into the crème-colored bathroom. Brightness beamed from her face, seeming almost sacrilegious that early in the morning, while he stood before the vanity's mirror in nothing but a pair of pajama pants, lathering shaving cream across his jaw._

_The thought that he'd left her that giddy set off something warm and exhilarating inside of him. "Even gods gotta shave, princess."_

"_Actually, gods don't. It's just us mere mortals that have to deal with pesky things like that." She slithered fluidly between him and the sink to hop up onto the marble countertop, letting her legs swing over, brushing against his waist._

_When he'd left her in bed, her curves had been swallowed up by one of his blue button-downs, her wavy mane a sexy-as-hell mussed mess. Now, he found her hair corralled neatly up into a ponytail, her body dressed in a V-neck blouse and denim miniskirt—ruined, of course, by the dark leggings she was wearing beneath._

"_Don't look at me like that," she drawled, catching the glimmer in his eye and twisting her mouth at it. "If you had your way, I'd never be clothed."_

"_And what's so wrong with that?" he asked, kinking a dark brow at her, making Elena roll her eyes._

_Once he had the cream even, he dunked his hands under the running faucet, and she snatched up the razor that sat across the countertop. "Watch out," she declared, scooting until she was perched on the front edge of the sink. Without permission, she pinned his hips between her knees and used a fingertip to force his chin up, exposing the lathered line of his throat for her careful ministrations._

"_You know," he said mildly, keeping still for her as she ran the razor up the underside of his jaw. "That's much sharper than—OW!"_

"_Oh God, I'm sorry!"_

"_Son of a bitch, that stings."_

"_I said I was sorry. Is it really that bad?"_

"_Nah, I'm just messing with you."_

"_Jerk," she snarled, but erupted into a cascade of giggles a second later, pointedly nicking the hollow of his throat with the blade, making him hiss. "That'll teach you."_

_Damon slanted out of her reach, running a hand up to catch the blood that dripped, mingling with cream, muddling white and red into pink. "Little sadist," he groused with mock-chagrin, giving her a disparaging shake of his head._

_Then, he scooped a clump of shaving cream off his cheek and smashed it into her face, catching her around the waist when she shrieked and tried to lunge away from him._

_They descended into a brief but fierce wrestling match, spreading the sticky mess between the two and mucking up the bathroom around them in the process._

"_Look what you did—you ruined my top—and my hair—oh, my God. I can't go to school like this! Now I'm going to be late, you animal."_

_That raised his brow. "Oh, I'm the animal?"_

"_Yes!"_

"_Don't you think you're being a tad overdramatic?"_

"_I can be overly dramatic if I want," she snapped huffily, shoving him out of her way. "I'm the one you've made a mess of."_

"_And what about me?" he countered, catching her by the waist as she tried to stomp from the room and hoisting her back up onto the vanity. "Am I not a mess too?"_

"_We're both messes. But you're not the one who has to be at school in a few minutes."_

"_Mm, that makes it my fault?" he played along, wiping their faces clean with a washcloth._

_Elena's lips curled up at the corners, hazel eyes sparkling in the golden light of morning that shone around them. "Of course it's your fault," she murmured, swatting his hands away from her and snatching the cloth from him to pat the foamy residue from her hair. "Everything's always your fault."_

"_I am terribly terrible, aren't I?" he added with a theatrical sigh, dusting his hands down the line of her blouse, flicking buttons undone as he went. She obligingly shirked it off and tossed it into the bathtub, giggling as his mouth found the sensitive spot below her ear._

"_Hm, yeah, terrible—that's a word for it." His hand went to the clasp on her bra and she smacked it away, but let his mouth keep working across the base of her throat as her eyes fluttered over to the unshrouded window, licking her lips. "Um, Damon, there was actually something that I've been meaning to bring up."_

"_So bring it up," he mumbled against her warm flesh, snapping the straps of her bra down her shoulders._

"_Well, there's this event coming up. The Founder's Day Gala, actually." She paused, drawing in a deep breath as he let out a groan, and then rushed on. "And I'm being presented as one of the founding daughters, which means that I'll need an escort to wait at the bottom of the stairs, you know, to catch me in case I trip, and then to do the cotillion dance with me, and everything else being an escort entails at one of these ridiculous things. And, well, I would ask somebody else—"_

_Damon's head came up at that, meeting her gaze with a suddenly undistracted one of his own. "Like who?"_

"_Oh, um, I don't know—anybody, really. Matt's taking Caroline, so he's not an option. But I'm sure there are a couple of guys in my class I could wrangle up, if I really needed to." She paused again, this time only long enough to give him one of her most endearing smiles and a shy tilt of her head. "But I'm hoping that I won't need to."_

_Damon was unconvinced. "You're asking me to be your escort, Miss Gilbert?"_

"_Maybe," she drawled, hooking her ankles around his waist and tilting up her chin._

"_Maybe?" he echoed, unimpressed._

"_If the idea isn't too revolting for you," she quipped cutely, hooking her arms around his neck as well._

"_To tell you the truth, it sounds downright abhorrent," he told her, pressing their torsos together and smirking at the subtle shiver that wracked her body. "But for you, I suppose I could suffer through it."_

"_You're so chivalrous," she drawled, dripping with sarcasm. It all evaporated a second later, though, replaced with a sharp spark of fervency when he crashed his mouth down onto hers, delving a hand into her ponytail and using it to force her head back, his tongue slipping into her mouth before she could choose._

_He couldn't get enough of her. But she was pulling away and sliding off the counter onto her feet before he could stop her._

_Catching her elbow and spinning her back around, he complained, "Elena."_

"_Don't think so, Romeo. I have to get to school," she said, laughing brightly as she escaped from his grasp and spun to skip out of the room._

_Damon watched her go, tamping down the airy sensation of contentment that threatened to overtake him._

He wished he could take it all away. But he was powerless. Elena was immune to compulsion now, something he'd suspected from the start but not confirmed until earlier this morning, when she'd woken from a particularly nasty nightmare and he'd earned himself a good slap for trying.

There was nothing he could do for her about that now. What had been done was done. It was too late to change that. But what he _could_ do was resolve to never let anything of the sort happen again—from lashing out at her himself to allowing anyone else to harm her. She'd survived enough damage. It was time for him to handle the rest.

Because if he took anything from this whole ordeal, it was the acceptance of the fact that Damon had fallen in love with that little werewolf upstairs. He'd been falling for her from the very beginning. What he now admitted to himself was love had been passed off as mere obsession, something he was intimately familiar with. He couldn't pretend with himself anymore. He may still be messed up in the head when it came to Elena and Katherine, but he had his priorities set straight, finally, and nothing was going to make him waver. Not even Elena.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Up above on the fourth floor, Elena writhed in bed. Small strangled noises rose up her throat, escaping in quiet gasps. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't speak, she couldn't understand. There was no way to call out for help but no way to help herself. Nothing made sense. And the worst of it all? A deafening tick-tick-ticking echoed from all directions, caging her in an implosion of sound.

_The Mystic Grill was crazily packed tonight, so crammed that she had to elbow her way through the crowd to make even an inch of headway. Up on a stage that never used to be there before, Matt and Tyler were jamming it out, Ben cradling a microphone as he belted out the lyrics to Nickelback's _Figured You Out_._

_Letting the swaying cluster of bodies knock her every which way, she finally waded up to the front of the stage, joining her dancing friends, i.e. Bonnie and the others. But it was still horrible, just horrible. See, she loved this song. But she couldn't hear it over that incessant tick-tick-ticking. She tried to ignore it. She tried to join in with the others, dance and laugh and have fun as they all rocked out. But she just couldn't. The ticking kept getting louder and louder until it felt like a trillion tiny hammers beating at the inside of her skull._

_But then Caroline leapt out from the blur of the crowd, coming into focus as a bright ray of sunshine. She took Elena by the wrist with one hand and held up the other, dangling a giant pocket watch in front of her face._

"_Whoa, what is that?" Elena yelled over the noise, slanting backward._

"_Never mind that," Caroline huffed, her expression harried. "You're late! Come on, this way." Then she spun around and darted into the crowd, running for the door._

"_Caroline!" Elena called, rushing after her. But it was like trying to swim upstream during a monsoon. "Caroline, wait!"_

"_Hurry up, Elena! You're late! You're late! You're late!" Caroline stopped in the doorway, straddling the threshold as she looked back at where Elena was supposed to be. "Everyone is waiting!"_

_By the time she made it out of the crowd, the frenzied blonde girl was missing. So with an uncertain look over her shoulder, Elena forged ahead, shoving the door open and sprinting out of the Mystic Grill. Only to come to a skidding halt the second the door swung shut behind her, cutting the world into silence as abrupt as the slice of a knife._

_But she wasn't outside, where she thought she ought to be. No, she was standing in the foyer of St. Jude's down on 3__rd__ with the double doors propped wide open at her back and that awful red carpet beneath her feet—a red that made her lacy white dress even whiter._

_Speaking of white dresses . . . Why, she wondered as she looked down at herself and frowned, was she wearing her mother's wedding gown? It was supposed to be enclosed securely in the garment case, tucked deep into her mother's hope chest at the foot of Aunt Jenna's bed. It wasn't supposed to be touched, only treasured. So why on Earth would she be playing dress-up at a time like this?_

Of all the silly things to do_, she thought. Aunt Jenna would not be happy about this._

_But when she turned to go put it back—preferably before anything bad happened to the precious dress—she ran right into a hard body, her nose to a chest that smelled familiarly of spice and cigar smoke._

_For one terrible moment, she stood frozen, trying to convince herself that she'd made a mistake. Her nose was wrong. But she couldn't keep her eyes from scrolling up to the face that chest led to. And by then, it was far too late._

"_Daddy?" she whispered, feeling a pang of something indecipherable ripple through her._

"_Hey, sweetheart," he replied, giving her a wide smile as he took her by the arms and made her stand straight. "How's my baby girl doing on her big day?"_

_Elena shook her head, feeling a tear slip softly down her cheek as he held her at arm's length, a carefree smile with his dark five o'clock shadow shining down at her. "Dad, what are you doing here?"_

_Grayson Gilbert gave his daughter an askew stare. "Don't tell me you doubted your old man. Wild horses couldn't keep me from being here for this."_

_Elena's frown deepened into intense befuddlement. "Here for what, exactly?"_

"_Forgot already, did ya?"_

"_No, but I never—" Her voice was overwhelmed suddenly by the beginning notes of the pipe organ echoing through the vaulted cathedral._

"_That's our cue, sweetheart." And with that, her father took her by the elbow and herded her around, guiding—dragging, actually—her down the wide aisle._

_Elena went without a fuss, too busy frowning at herself, waiting for the world to make sense again, blinking to see if it'd righted yet._

_Waiting for them at the altar was everyone she cared about—Bonnie and Caroline lined up in pretty lavender dresses, Jeremy and Damon lined opposite them in tuxes, while Aunt Jenna and Alaric and Bianca Bennett and Tyler and Matt and Ben and Uncle Jake and the girls from the spirit squad all packed into the first few pews._

_Only her mother and Stefan were missing, and their absences were stark in Elena's mind, even through the fog of confusion_

_It wasn't until her dad had deposited her before the awaiting Father Tomás that her eyes landed on the groom. But when she saw him, that confusion melted away, to be taken over by a crystal clear sense of terror._

"_No," she exclaimed before she was aware that she was speaking. "No, you can't be here. I killed you!" Elena tore her gaze from Noah Calhoun, who stood calmly and patiently before her, the pair and the priest completing a small triangle, and she looked for her father. "What's going on?" she asked him, moving her eyes to Damon, then to Jeremy, and Father Tomás, and Bonnie and Caroline, and Aunt Jenna, then back to her father. "What's going on? Why is he here?"_

"_Shh, Elena," Bonnie whispered from over her shoulder. "Keep it down. The ceremony's starting."_

_She gave her friend an outrageously incredulous look. But when she quickly realized Bonnie's placid appearance was impenetrable, Elena turned to search the rest of her loved ones, desperate in a growing panic that threatened to drown her._

"_Damon!" she called, raising her brow in expectance, waiting. But he only stood there, not even seeming like he was aware of her. "What's going on?"_

"_Dearly beloved," Father Tomás began, overlooking her frenetic protests. "We are gathered here tonight to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony."_

"_No! Would you shut up? Stop it! Stop! This isn't happening. Why won't any of you listen to me? You're not listening!"_

"_Do you—"_

"_No! I most definitely DO NOT," she hollered, gathering up the bell of her dress, ready to get the hell out of there. But she couldn't move. Her feet were planted to the floor. She was stuck. And no one could see. No one could understand her._

_Then Noah turned to her, and it was all she could do to keep from fainting with frustration. "I give you this ring as a token and pledge of our constant faith and abiding love—"_

"_Are you kidding me?" Elena felt as if she might die, then and there, from lack of oxygen if nothing else. "Touch me and I'll kill you again!" she snarled, jerking her hand away from him when he tried to shove a ring onto her finger. "And I'll keep killing you till it sticks."_

"_Elena," her father called, stepping up onto the altar. "Sweetheart, what are you doing?"_

"_Oh, now you can hear me?" she drawled, her face scrunching up at him._

"_By virtue of the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you—"_

_Elena whirled on Father Tomás, holding a dangerously pointed finger in his face. "Finish that sentence, Father, and you're dead too. I don't care if you are a man of God."_

"_But, Elena, dear—"_

"_No! You all just shut up and leave me alone. I don't want to be here. I want to leave!"_

"_Well, then," Damon said, sidling up to her, his jacket undone and his tie loose. "Let's get the hell outta here."_

"_Ugh, finally!" she exclaimed, letting out a whoosh of air as she discovered her feet were unstuck. Without so much as a glance backward, she picked up the bottom of her dress and took off after Damon, following him out of the church._

_Everything was going to be okay now. She was free. Everything was . . . Hey, where'd Damon go? He was right there in front of her a second ago. And then she rushed through the open double doors and out onto the church steps—and no Damon. No anybody._

_She was just . . . alone._

_The forest around her was darker than it should have been. The road that should have come up to the church was missing, the rest of the town gone. All there was were trees, miles and miles of uninterrupted trees, scattering the impenetrable shadows. No moon, no stars, no light at all in the sky. In fact, she couldn't even really say if there was a sky up above anymore. All she knew was that darkness, and it was closing in on her, eating away the brightness of her mother's wedding gown, leaving her with nothing._

_Mist roiled around her feet, coating the ground until she couldn't see where she was walking or what she was walking on. How could this be? Where was she? Where was she going? Why couldn't she stop moving forward, deeper into that depth of darkness?_

"_Damon?" she called, listening to the echoes of her trembling voice as it bounced off the treetops, chasing flocks of ebony birds to flight. "Is someone out there?"_

"_Elena," a distant voice whispered, drawing her further into that misted abyss. "We're waiting for you, Elena. We're waiting for you."_

"_Like the others were waiting for me?" she grumbled under her breath, tromping through the mist. "'Cause I'm not getting married again, I don't care what's going on."_

"_This way, Elena, come quickly."_

"_Where?" she yelled, straining her eyes to make some kind of sense of the abyss that had swallowed her._

"_Here . . ."_

"_I don't know where 'here' is. Where are you?"_

"_You know," the voice replied, cryptic and extremely aggravating._

"_But I don't!" she cried, throwing her hands up in the air as she looked to where the sky should be. "I don't understand!"_

_The sharp sound of someone huffing startled her, and when she jerked around, she found a mirror image emerging from out of the blackness, a slinky red dress hugging her body from chest to ankle, glossy hair pinned up in an intricate pile of perfect curls, feet bare, and a beyond irritated expression marring her delicate face._

"_Are you really that dense?" the mirror image growled at her, hands on hips._

"_Hey, you're me."_

_The mirror image rolled her eyes heavenward with a very-put-upon sigh. "Oh Lord."_

"_Well, excuse me," Elena snapped, bristling at her reflection's attitude. "But I'm a bit lost and I think I'm entitled to be a little slow right now."_

"_You are so getting on my nerves," the mirror image muttered, tromping toward Elena. With every step, the mist hurried to part for her. And when she reached Elena, she raised her arm, pointing toward more of the same darkness. "Just LOOK for crying out loud."_

"_Fine, okay, whatever," Elena grumbled, turning to obey. "You don't have to be so freaking crabby."_

"_Well, maybe if you could take a hint, I wouldn't be so irritable."_

"_Jeez, someone's sure PMSing."_

"_Not likely," the mirror image drawled, even as she began to fade, dissipating with the layers of mist, broken apart by straying wind. "Remember, you know . . ."_

_Then she was gone. And Elena was once again alone in the world._

"_Why couldn't she just tell me? I'm so sick and tired of all these ridiculous charades," she complained, delving tentatively into the void of blackness as it began to lighten, slowly but steadily forming into something substantial._

_She found herself in an endless tunnel, bedrock as walls, clayish sand for floor, crumbling cement for ceiling, all closing in on her. She recognized this tunnel. She'd been here before. But this was as far as she'd come. And this was as far as she wanted to go._

_There was a cold touch reaching out, trying to seep into her soul._

_But when she started backing away, a surge of motion rippled down to her, a rustling of something alive. She knew she needed to see. But . . . she just . . . it was too . . . more than anything, she needed to escape. The claustrophobia was closing in. But the pull was too strong, a knot in her stomach, innately urging her forward._

"_Elena."_

_A voice filled her ears, a voice so familiar that it riled an ache inside of her. Nothing but that voice saying her name, and she found her feet racing her ahead, hurrying deeper into the narrow passageway, until that cold touch of sickness was so thick she couldn't breathe._

"_Elena."_

_The tunnel began to dissolve out from around her, bleeding into a cage of cement, a box that reeked of decomposing flesh and garden soil, where an echo of misery clung to the barriers of stone as if an emotion could be fervent enough to create a lingering ghost much like a restless spirit might._

_There in the center was a slab of stone, growing out of the tainted cement below, empty yet ready. As if it was waiting for something, an altar for offering. The darkening smoothness of stone was stained with a coating of dried blood and grime, an array of horrific moments frozen in time to accompany the emotion that still lingered in the stagnant air._

_As she stood, running a trembling hand across the soiled surface of the altar, feeling the cold grit of the floor biting into her feet, Elena felt as if she were experiencing an awareness of some sort, an awareness that gnawed at the edges of her conscious mind, fraying the boundaries between what was and what would be. Only this was an awareness that she couldn't reach. She knew it was there but held no inkling as to how to grasp it._

"_Elena."_

_That voice again, she realized, looking around her at the nothingness that lied beyond her cage of stone and misery. He was calling to her. But where was he? Where was the voice coming from? She had to know._

_She had to find him. He was calling, because he was trapped, just as she had been. He needed her, and she had to find him._

"_Stefan?" she called out, her own voice breathless, her body both rigid and weightless as she searched the overwhelming darkness. But it was useless. He was there, beyond in nowhere she could reach. Not from here._

"_Elena."_

_She had to escape. She had to be free to find him. She knew now what she needed to do. She understood. But she had to be free. "Please, please," she whispered, praying to whoever may be listening, struggling fiercely through the quiet. "Let me go. You have to let me go."_

Elena woke to a gasp choking in her throat. She flung upward, heart thundering and head wailing, body weeping horridly with sweat.

"Holy Hell," she exclaimed, voice no more than a rough whisper as she panted, frantic to catch her breath, flailing in the chaos as dream transitioned to reality and her mind fought to keep up.

Lightning lit up the sky, flashing sharp rays of silvery gray through the dim room, followed closely by another cacophony assault of thunder. It jerked her down to sense, and the pieces of the world fell into all the right places again, chasing away the absurd, ushering in the familiarity.

"Oh—_Oh God_," she groaned, slumping in relief, doubling over until her damp face was pressed to the sheets that covered her legs. Exhaustion rippled through her, nearly enough to make her faint. But she fisted her hands in the bedding, riding it out, and the majority of the sensation washed away a few seconds later.

Only to be replaced by a rush of urgency.

It had her leaping out of bed and onto her feet as another flash of lightning flickered in through the windows, scaring the air out of her lungs.

When she brushed by, the balcony doors rattled against an onslaught of wind, but the latch kept them sealed. Still, rain seeped in through the cracks, soaking the liner rug that rested there.

Elena's strides were purposeful and undistracted as she hurried down the stairs and rushed through the second-story main corridor, searching room by room with quick glances, only to burst into the study when she found what she was looking for.

"Did you know?" she asked, demanding an answer with her tone if not her stoic façade as she crossed to where Damon stood leant against the frame of an oriel window that arched high above their heads.

His gaze was focused on the storm beyond, his features deceptively placid. But tension sang through the set of his lean body the second she stepped into the room.

"Did I know what?"

"About Stefan," she replied evenly, coming around to partially face him. "That I was right. That he's in trouble. Tell me, Damon. Did you know?"

His vivid crystalline eyes shifted to her then, keeping his features expressionless. "That's pretty vague. Stefan's always in one sort of trouble or another."

"Damon," she said before her jaw locked, making him sigh.

"But I can see you're looking for a fight—you've got your confrontational attitude in place. So why don't we cut to the chase and you just tell me what it is you want to accuse me of this time," he suggested with a mild manner, his eyes attentive and overly innocent.

Elena let out a heavy breath of air and rubbed a hand over her face, shoulders squaring with resolve. "I'm not going to accuse you of anything."

"You already are."

"I just want to know what you know," she told him, voice softening. "I've been saying for days now that something wasn't right. That something was going on with Stefan, something more than just our mess."

"Our mess," he echoed, gazing out the window again. "What a quaint way of putting it. Very romantic, not so tormented, blasé even—just like you to think of it that way."

"My point," she overstated with narrowing eyes, "is that I've been worrying and you've been shrugging it off. How would you have not known if something bad has happened? You have to know _something_."

"Of course I do," he retorted easily, plunking down onto the windowsill and shifting to face her. "I know Stefan went deep down to the bayou to help out a friend of a friend, because he's Stefan. I know he hasn't returned any of your calls or mine."

"So you did call him?" she blurted out, taken aback.

He gave her an apathetic shrug for that. "And I'll admit that the entire texting thing was a bit suspicious. I also know that, while you're reasoning for worry seemed sound, I wasn't about to go digging."

"But—"

"Why would I bother myself with dragging Stefan home?" he asked her, his eyes suddenly darkening as they focused solely on her, letting the rest of the world drift away. "We were so good there for a little while. You think those two weeks would have been if Saint Stefan had decided to return early?"

Elena felt herself go warm, and a bit sad, at the husky sound of his voice. "Damon . . ."

But he was already shaking it off, retreating back into his air of aloof calm. "But I guess that doesn't matter now."

"So there is something you're not telling me," she concluded, taking her certainty from the way his gaze suddenly averted, the swift shift that came from inside of him.

"Honestly, I really wasn't buying it." He swung up from the windowsill as a clash of thunder rolled over them and slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he moved past her. "Stefan's a big boy, Elena. He's been taking care of himself for a long time before you came around. I didn't think . . ."

She spun around then, her heart aflutter with panic while he kept his back to her. "What is it, Damon?"

He turned back around for her at that, his demeanor back to normal. "Let's just say that my suspicion has definitely solidified."

Brow furrowing, Elena folded her arms across her midsection as she crossed the room to him, stopping only when they were face to face. "Just what exactly does that mean?"

"It means you were right and I was wrong, okay?"

"Damon," she huffed, catching him by the shoulder when he tried to walk away from her again. "Would you just stop? You're driving me crazy."

One corner of his mouth curled up at that, and he tilted his head at her, eyes abruptly sparkling. "That's what I'm here for."

"Funny," she bit back, all dry, no humor. "Because I was under the impression you're here to level with me on just what the hell it is you know that I don't before you push me to the point I have to get physical."

He opened his mouth, witty innuendo at the ready, but she slapped a hand over it before he could get a word out.

"Damon," she said through her teeth, speaking on very thin patience, her eyes deadly serious. "Stop. Deflecting."

He met her even stare with a deliberating one of his own, stretching it out for a long few moments before he finally gave in with a sharp exhale of breath. "Okay, I may have made a call last night, and left a voicemail, saying to get back to Mystic Falls ASAP."

Elena looked confused. "What has that—"

"Also," he added shortly, holding up his index finger. "I may have divulged a summarized account of why it was so imperative that little brother come home quickly."

Elena fell still at that, withdrawing. "You . . . told him about _Wicked Bliss_."

He schooled his face into a sedated wince. "Should I not have?"

"I don't know," she answered honestly, unthinkingly, crossing her arms over her chest as a sense of awkwardness overtook her.

"Well, if it's any consolation, I'm pretty sure he never got the message."

"Why?" she countered distractedly, eyes going right past him.

Damon offered the girl an "uh, hello?" look. "If he had gotten it, he would have been here," he told her, speaking as if to a simpleton, then pivoting on his heel and sauntering out into the corridor, leaving Elena to follow him downstairs into the parlor. "When I never heard back from him, I knew you were right." He stopped at the liquor cart, tipping two glasses right side up and pouring. "In all likelihood, Stefan's gotten himself into something big and probably needs saving."

Elena nodded. "I knew it. I _knew_ he was in trouble and I just kept ignoring my instincts, telling myself I was being paranoid."

Damon sidled up to her, sipping at his glass as he handed her the other. "Don't beat yourself up. You were kinda busy."

Shooting him a sour look, she took the glass and gulped down a quick swig without even bothering to see what it was. Surprisingly, it turned out to be nothing more than sparkling water. Even more shocking, she took a look at his glass and found it was the same. "Gone on the wagon, have you?"

"Nothing so horrendous," he quipped, offering her a wry smile. "But every binge precedes a break."

Elena shook her head, brushing that aside for more pressing matters. "Do you think he's okay?"

"Well," Damon replied, letting out a soft bark of laughter, wry and humorless. "He's alive. I'd have sensed it if he weren't. Beyond that, I know about as much as you do, sweetheart."

"He said he was going down to see Lexi's daughter. Don't you know her?"

"Not personally, no. I didn't even know Lexi as anything more than a passing acquaintance, and not an overly friendly one, I might add. The woman had a very impressive vindictive streak."

"Yes, well, as much as I feel for you, killing her wasn't too friendly either," she jibed, making him put a hand to his heart and wince for her, feigning a deep wound.

When she simply stared, deadpanning, he gave a martyred huff and spun away, moving to lean back against a bookshelf, propping up his elbow. "Fine, be that way. But you're not about to jab me into playing the tortured puppy dog. No matter how witty or scathing your oh-so heartfelt remarks may be."

Ignoring his theatrics with a roll of her eyes, Elena refolded her arms and leveled him with a high chin and an expectant expression. "So when do we leave?"

That took him aback. "Say what now?"

"To find Stefan," she prodded, raising her brow at him.

"Oh, that." He said it like a bad taste had landed on his tongue, faux disappointment flickering through his façade.

Sensing his reluctance pushed Elena back into her urgency. She took a step toward him, her heart thundering in rhythm with the downpour. "Damon, he's your brother."

"And?" he challenged, lifting his dark brow as he swirled the glass he cradled in smooth circles, sloshing water into a mellow whirlpool. His eyes burned into her, steady and even and unreachable behind the unflappable veneer.

It made her teeth set sharply, holding in her frustration. "He'd do it for you."

Damon's face contorted incredulously at that. "He'd let me rot and we both know it."

Elena shook her head, a stubborn tilt to her chin as she stared him down. "That's not true. Deep down you know that, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not. Despite everything, your brother loves you. Don't even try to tell me he doesn't. Maybe he wouldn't be the first one through the door after everything that's happened. But, push comes to shove, he'd fight for you." She hesitated, taking another step, bringing them close, until she could look up into his stormy cerulean eyes and show him she was earnest. "And you'll do the same for him."

"I will?" he asked tonelessly, deceptively unmoved.

Elena refused to be rattled. "Yes. You will."

Damon searched her for a seemingly endless moment, digging deep and roving wide. Finally, he gave up with a weary shake of his head. "You don't know that, Elena. You believe what you want to believe. But you don't know."

Frustration ignited, and, with a spark, she threw her hands up into the air, huffed out a shrill groan, and spun away from him. "I believe what I feel and I feel what I know. I'm right. You're wrong. It's as simple as that," she snapped, then whirled back around to face him. "But we don't have time to argue about this, Damon. I'm done trying to wheedle you into doing what you know you're going to do in the end anyway. We're just wasting time."

"I agree."

"So I'll make it simple for you," she said clearly, calmly, precisely. "If you won't listen to me, fine, I'll go down there myself and find out what the hell is going on. You can come or not. But either way, I'm going and I'm not coming back until I make sure that _your_ _brother_ is okay. Got it?"

"You're giving me an ultimatum?" he balked, unbelieving. "You can't seriously think that crap will work on me?"

Elena shot him an infuriated look, but when she spoke again, her voice was soft. "You just don't get it. It's not about working you over, Damon. Why can't you see that? Not everything is summed up to manipulating you."

"I know that," he growled abruptly, pushing off from the bookshelf and advancing on her. But when he got close, and the rich scent of her enveloped him, his rigid body slumped. In a soft and tired voice, he reiterated, "I know that."

"So will you just come with me?" she asked, her voice as soft as his, her head tilting imploringly. "Damon?"

"No."

Elena drew back in surprise. "W—"

"But," he cut in on her reaction, reluctance and resignation rippling through him. "_I_ will head down there and check up on little brother, if that will make you happy."

Something hesitant flickered through her eyes, but it was gone before he could decipher it. In a smooth voice with a composed face, she told him, "Thank you."

Giving her nothing but a curt nod of his head, Damon set down his glass and stepped around her, leaving the room.

Elena listened to him go, waiting until his lazy footfalls were out of earshot before she moved into action, following the trail he'd left up the stairs, only stopping on the second floor where she found the suite Grace and Nicholas were staying in.

Upon a brief perusal, she found the duffel bag Grace had brought with her stuffed under the bed. It'd been emptied out, its former contents residing in the bureau across the room. She took it out and set it on the foot of the bed, unzipping the dark bag.

It took her a moment to push aside the feeling of being rude. But, once she had, she started moving quickly, pulling out a few items of folded clothing that looked like they might fit her decently and stuffing them inside the duffel.

When she zipped it up, Elena moved back to the dresser and scrounged up something to put on. Hurriedly, she stripped out of the undershirt and sweatpants she'd been wearing and dragged on a pair of rayon hip-huggers with five double-sided buttons along the hipbones. She found a white peasant top of Grace's in the top drawer, an off-the-shoulder with a built-in bra, and shimmied it on so that she didn't have to dig into the woman's undergarments. But the circumference of the top was a bit oversized on her slender frame, making her grab an ebony waist cincher that had hidden beneath it in the drawer and buckled it around her torso, feeling more secure with it hugging her diaphragm.

The soft fabric reeked of old scents, French Vanilla perfume, citrus blossoms, and secondhand sandalwood. There was a time when she'd never have been able to distinguish all of that so easily. But she'd assimilated the change in her senses fluidly and without conscious effort. It wasn't even a month yet and already she felt as if it had always been this way.

Topping it all off was the cropped leather jacket she'd left in the den one night with a pair of spare high-tops.

Once she was dressed properly and had corralled her curls out of her face with a pin, Elena went back up to Grace's room. Then she took one of the writing pads lying around and scratched out a sloppy note, explaining why she'd borrowed what she had and to please excuse her lack of manners.

A phone lay hooked to its charger on one of the bedside tables. As soon as her eyes landed on the small silver electronic, Elena snatched it up, taking a deep breath, gathering her courage, before she dialed Aunt Jenna.

She was all psyched up for another fight, even had some of her defense all lined up. So when Aunt Jenna's phone went straight to voicemail, a rush of immense relief washed through her. Yes, she was being a coward. But this way was so much easier. She'd just leave a message. No exhaustive argument necessary.

"Hey, Aunt Jenna, it's me. I was just calling to check in," she said when the line picked up. "But it looks like I missed you."

_God, I'm so lame_, she thought, rolling her eyes and dropping her face into her hand.

"Um, so anyway—look, I know I've been gone awhile. I'm sorry I couldn't call. I hope I didn't worry you too much." _I can't keep doing this_._ It's not fair to her._ "I just . . . I'm going through something right now—a lot of somethings, actually. And I don't want to sound dramatic, but it's kind of profound."_ I have to come clean with her. She deserves to know the truth._ "I want to talk to you about it. Really, I do. Just not yet," she said in a small voice, and then paused, taking a breath, feeling awful. "See, there's something I have to take care of first. I know you've been really great to me these last few months, unbelievably understanding, really. And I appreciate it. I do." She stopped, hooking the duffel strap over her shoulder and gnawing at her lip. "Would you, please, just trust me a little longer? I'll be back soon, and when I am, we'll talk. I promise."

As she snapped the phone shut and tossed it back to where she'd found it, Elena felt resolve settle somewhere deep down, and a portion of relief came along with it. She'd made the decision, and she wasn't going to fret over it. It was as good as done. She could worry about her home life once she'd made sure Stefan was safe.

_Stefan_. God, she'd missed him.

With all that had been going on, she hadn't realized just how much his absence mattered to her until now that she was thinking of it clearly, knowing she was so painfully close to seeing him again.

It was somewhat as if she'd been through a looking glass and was only just returning to the normality that was her life now. A focused perspective came to her, an old familiarity that had been missing. She hadn't understood that before.

Yet, the feeling of warmth and hope paled in comparison to the imminent threat that hung above her head. The unknowing of what laid ahead. The likely possibility that he was in danger and had been all this time as she and Damon had fooled around for two whole weeks, too unnaturally happy and thoughtless to notice. Thinking of it all made her vaguely queasy. The turmoil was so massive. She didn't know what to think or feel.

But that wasn't important, because she had somewhere to be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The powerful thunderstorm was still raging as vehemently as ever by the time Damon made his way out to the canopy carport that attached to one side of the boarding house, an inlet of the circular driveway, where he'd left his Camaro.

Drenched and dripping, he made his way to the rear door and tossed his bag into the backseat, freezing when his eyes landed on the girl sitting obstinately in the front passenger's seat with her arms wrapped around herself.

"Damn it," he hissed under his breath, making his way around to her side of the car and flinging her door open. "_No_."

Elena kept her gaze steadily in front of her. "Yes."

"No way," he told her firmly, knowing it was useless yet not able to accept it. It wasn't that he hadn't seen this coming. But that didn't make her any less of a pain in the ass for doing it. Really, couldn't she listen to him just once? Then again, if she ever did, he'd die of shock.

"I'm going with you."

"Forget about it," Damon snapped, leaning his arm against the open door as his gaze went up over the soft top.

She turned toward him at that, looking up with a stubbornly jutted chin. "It's not up for discussion."

"You're right. It's not," he agreed, pulling the door wider and gesturing an arm straight out. "Get out of the car, Elena."

"No," she retorted, folding her arms.

Damon's jaw clenched, restraint tensing his muscles. "You're staying here," he said through his teeth, then bent in after her.

Elena lunged backward, bringing her foot up to his chest to keep him at bay. But with an irritated swat, he shoved her ankle aside and delved in, hands wrapping around the leather on her arms as she squirmed. He was careful with his strength when he jerked her out of the car and onto her feet, pressing her back into the rear door.

"No, Damon!"

The vampire's features contorted with the overwhelming, infuriating, puzzling frustration she invoked in him. He was close to tearing at his hair. "I told you I'd go, didn't I?" He jerked her once, trying to shake some reason into her. "Just get back inside," he growled. "I'll be back in a few days with your _precious_ _Stefan_."

"_No_," she bit right back, distractedly dusting his hands off of her shoulders as if his strength were nothing, then arching up on her toes, taking most of his height advantage away. "Stefan went down there and never came back," she told him in a low voice, smoldering him. "I _know_ that something is seriously wrong. And now you think that I'm just going to sit and watch you drive off to never come back too?" she scoffed. "You're out of your mind."

"Elena—" he started, jaw clenched with strenuous patience, but she jammed a sharp finger into his chest to quiet him.

"I'm going with you, Damon, and there's nothing you can do about it. You leave without me and I'll just follow you. I know where you're going. I can read a map."

"Damn it, Elena—"

"_No_," she shushed him, clamping a hand down over his mouth, ignoring the way he glowered at her. "One way or the other, Salvatore, we're going together."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sky was clear in Louisiana, clear and crystal blue. The woods were bright and deep, sprawls of barren trees and a ground blanketed with dead leaves. Miles away from civilization, the Malone manor lived hidden, swallowed by crawling ivy and rotting wood.

Within the manor, Stefan stood inside an antiquely-furnished bedroom with nothing but vacancy in his eyes. The boarded windows let less than slivered tendrils of light past. Wearing only a pair of old slacks that fit awkwardly to his hips, his skin was unshrouded and too ashen under the sickly dimness of the manor's interior.

When a too-long metallic fingernail raked across the planes of his torso, there was no reaction, only more of the same emptiness in his eyes. He stood, not frozen, but unmoving. Lifeless. Mindless. Unresponsive.

"My, it gets so dreary playing with dolls." Skyler circled her puppet, coming to the front of him with a small sigh.

This was why she'd never liked toys as a child. It was just so boring when they wouldn't react.

"All right," she purred, stroking an emaciated hand down his cheek. "If I breathe some life back into you, you'll behave. Won't you, Stefan?"

He gave her a molasses nod of his head, eyes unblinking.

"I know you will," she drawled, smirking as she took a step away and eased the shadow of influence from her plaything.

Awareness returned slowly, seeping in and washing away the void that consumed him. In the room around him, what he saw was not the necromancer that taunted him, but rather a familiar vision in crimson. "Katherine."

The vision tilted her head, giving him a small heartfelt smile as she closed the distance between them, the silk dress sliding across her caramel flesh smoother than water. The dark depths of her hazel eyes were soft, burning into his soul. "Hello, Stefan."

"What are you doing here?" he asked, hardening merciless as she drew a hand through his soft brown hair, her other resting against his heart.

"You're growing weaker," she answered simply, letting her hand trail down to his shoulder, then smoothing down his arm. She took his hand in hers and brought it up to her throat, dusting aside a lock of curls, exposing the curve of her neck.

Stefan's eyes drew to her pulse, beating methodically to the rhythm of the blood that flowed beneath the surface, calling out to him. "It isn't possible," he murmured to himself, palm pressing to the upper swell of her left breast, feeling the thump resonate through his touch. "Your heart's beating."

Katherine nodded, looking up at him through long dark lashes. "It's what you need," she coaxed, her juniper-scented breath whispering across his face. "It's what you _want_."

"No," he denied, withdrawing from her, shaking his head, even as his brow creased with conflict. "No, I don't."

"Lie, lie, lie," she drawled in singsong, luscious lips curving as she followed his retreat. "Stefan, why are you lying to me?"

"I can't."

"Oh, baby," she cooed, catching his face between her palms, soothing his struggle with her unwavering stare. "Don't do this to yourself. You have to nourish." She pressed her mouth to his just barely, speaking into his lips. "You need your strength."

"You don't understand," he rebuffed, losing vehemence when his hands landed at the base of her throat, fingertips pressing into her collarbone, sending frissons of painful enticement through him. "I _can't_."

"Stefan," she intoned, sending vibrations through him. She drifted a hand backward, coming up with stainless dagger, which she drew swiftly across the base of her throat.

Hissing with pained hunger, Stefan ripped himself away from her, eyes wide and wild and focused on the slash in her flesh, where tendrils of rich blood poured from, running like sinful syrup down her chest to wet the silk hem of her dress.

"It's alright, Stefan," she promised, dipping her fingers in the delicious carnage and cornering him against the plywood-covered window. "_Shh_, it's alright."

"_Katherine_ . . ." His voice died, strangled off in his throat as the ache in his jaw pushed canines into fangs, elongating and sharpening.

She brought her tainted fingers up to press into his soft lips, swiping downward, slipping her fingertips into his mouth, making his eyes flutter closed with strain. She leaned in and whispered, "Go on, Stefan."

The next second, his defiance shattered, no warning, no transition, just one quick and frenzied lunge, and he had his teeth sunken into her flesh, tearing through tendon and muscle, drinking deeply from her.

"_Stefan_," she stuttered, eyes fluttering closed. As she sank limply, his arms wound around her, holding her tight in an unbreakable grasp.

The blood hit his tongue with a sharp spark of rejuvenation, the first drop of alcohol for a desperately dehydrated addict. Then the warm gush of decadence was filling his mouth, sliding smoothly down his throat, coating his senses in hungry euphoria and sending synapses firing on overdrive.

Reality faded away, rationality leaving him as he consumed.

Skyler stood at the other end of the room, grinning sadistically as the young girl's cries filled her ears, dying out the more he took, the worse he ravaged.

As the petite barmaid she sent Lee out for slithered lifelessly to the floor, the necromancer crossed to the afflicted vampire, running a hand up his bare arm as he surfaced from the delirium of bloodlust.

Panting and trembling, Stefan looked down at the body that lay crumpled at his feet, seeing the vision of a beautiful face he'd come to know better than his own, one shared by the past and current love of his life. Her hazel eyes were still. Gone was the spark of fire. Crimson silk hugged a chest that no longer rose and fell in that natural rhythm of life.

As he stared, he couldn't understand why she'd gone still, enveloped in the touch of death. This wasn't real, he would and had sworn. The body at his feet proved that, for it was Katherine, and that just couldn't be. But the taste that lingered in his mouth, a vitality now pumping through his veins, threatened to convince him otherwise.

"Tell you a secret?" Skyler whispered conspiratorially, her sky-high heels clicking against the worn floorboards as she circled him. "Very few know the truth. But I believe I can trust you," she teased laughingly, dancing acrylic fingernails across the quavering sculpture of his stomach. "The essence of what was your sire—her memory, thoughts, emotions, experiences—is a ghost of its own. Like many restless spirits are, actually. Not the person themselves . . . only a damaged spectral unable to accept the ending of death. It is what lingers for me to play with."

Stefan watched her step over Katherine's body as if it were simply worthless debris in her way, not even worth a glance. She tilted her head—too-long tendrils of hair swept over one shoulder—and offered him a pleased smile, her glossy lips curving coyly.

"But the actual soul?" she chimed melodically, slanting into the crook of his neck as she brushed by. "That's out of my reach."

Skyler walked away, not bothering with a glance behind her, and released the protective illusion that shrouded him.

The delicate beauty of Katherine and Elena fled before his tormented eyes, chased away by a power that clung to his skin like the stench of a rotting corpse, her radiance bleeding into that of the mundane, until an unfamiliar figure revealed itself. A lifeless young girl, spilt blood staining her throat and the valley of her breasts, soaking the white T-shirt she wore.

An insubstantial mane of dirty-blonde tresses, muddled gray eyes, ashen lips, an angular bone structure, a rustic gold wedding ring on her left hand.

Stefan felt a throbbing frisson ripple through his head, the lingering taste in his mouth turning from exquisite to acrid. An intense pang stabbed at him as realization took hold, and he shuddered, sinking to his knees beside the dead girl.

Out in the decrepit hallway, Skyler found Lee waiting, propped against the landing's banister. The young vampire had his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes haunted. The turmoil of his thoughts was written out across his face.

"What is it you want now?" she asked him, irritation making her voice brittle.

"Nothing," he said, gruff and distracted.

Skyler gnashed her teeth at him. "Then _why_ are you _hovering_?"

"I don't know how much longer I can stand this. How long are you going to toy with him?" he demanded, wondering how long she could draw this out before getting to what he'd started this for. "You were supposed to be drawing the other Salvatore here. He's the one that killed Lexi. Not Stefan. You're just wasting time."

Skyler's answering smile made his insides twist with dread and regret. "Don't fret over that, lover. All in due time," she purred, patting his scruffy cheek with an air of patronizing humor. "But, only to suit your impatience, I will say that the wait is nearing its end."

"You're going to lure the other one soon?" he asked, hope lilting him.

"It's done," she chimed, drawing backward until she could lean her upper back against the opposite wall, teasingly jutting out her hips. "That mate of theirs will ensure he joins us soon. And then you will have your taste for vengeance satisfied. Of that, I'd give you my word."

"Would or will?" he challenged wryly.

Skyler only smirked in response. But the glee dancing in her eyes expressed all there was to be said. Until a moment passed and Lee's spirits remained muddled, making her brow furrow unhappily.

"Why aren't you satisfied?" she demanded, sounding affronted. "I am handing you everything you asked for, am I not?"

"Yes," he admitted in a small voice, not meeting her seeking stare. "I just—" He stopped himself, unknowing of the words that wouldn't come. Giving up, he huffed out a choking breath and scraped a hand over his face.

Skyler tipped her head to one side. "You're acting awfully ungrateful."

Lee released a shuddery sigh, sagging against the banister. When his gaze refocused, it scrolled over her shoulder, going into the room, clouding wearily. In a despondent voice, he whispered "You're sick."

The flash of her eyes startled him. Moving as quickly as any vamp, the necromancer had him by the chin, her fingernails digging into his cheeks, drawing blood. "You don't know the meaning of the word," she hissed, pushing him halfway over the banister, making him clutch at the rail rather than her ravaging grip on his face. "You know _nothing_!" she spat, then lowered her voice to a deadly steadiness as she added, "Do not act as if you do."

Lee lost his grip on the rickety wood when she gave a sharp shove, sending him over the edge, leaving him to fall.


	8. Road to Elsewhere

**Entry 8: ****Road to Elsewhere**

Damon shifted behind the wheel, trying to ease the tension in his muscles. The heavy downpour of rain that assailed them was nowhere near close to distracting him from the effects of her incessant worrying. The stress of agitation sang through her tightly-wound body so intensely that he could feel it from across the car with a gearshift between them. She was restless and anxiety ridden to an extreme, and truthfully, he was struggling to keep from turning hostile with her.

It wasn't that he didn't want her here with him, per se. Just that he didn't want her coming along at all. One would think the girl had had enough of throwing herself into danger. _Yet for Saint Stefan_ . . . he thought with a twist of bitterness. And no matter how much he wanted to be Joe Understanding, he couldn't help the storm of irritability that had been festering inside of him since they'd left Mystic Falls.

He didn't want to analyze it. He just wanted some peace. Which she was making succinctly impossible . . .

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Damon's eyes cut briefly to the jittery fingers currently wreaking havoc on his nerves.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

It was, suffice to say, driving him _insane_.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

The muscles in Damon's jaw twitched, his patience wearing thinner than thin, his teeth grinding with the strain of keeping quiet.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

"Elena," he said meticulously through his teeth.

"Hm?"

"_Stop_ _that_."

The shaky rhythm stuttered at his uneven voice, silence descended. "Sorry."

A few miles went by, the sky-blue pony car streaking gracefully down the desolate stretch of interstate. The melody of water falling against the metal and cascading down the glass seemed to wrap around the car, isolating them from the rest of the world. It was almost sere—

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Long fingers flexed before furling tensely around the top of the steering wheel. His patience was whittling away faster than the car was speeding, and every time that _tap_ filled his ears again, he was one moment closer to snapping.

"Elena," he said with a clenched jaw, his voice painstakingly gentle. "Please, _cease_ that _insufferable_ fidgeting before you make me leave you on the side of the road."

The girl hesitated, freezing where she sat. She was slouched low in the leather passenger seat, her knees against her chest with her bare feet propped on the dashboard in front of her. The shock of crimson-painted toenails cast sharp contrast to the muddled shade of the console, blending softly with the warm toffee of her skin. Damp tendrils of hair were pasted to the side of her face, while the rest of her dark mane had been lazily upswept off her neck. She sighed—an expression of the air of resigned exhaustion that had plagued her for the last hundred miles.

She cast tired hazel eyes out the blurry window, looking toward scenery she couldn't decipher. All she muttered was "Sorry." And the interior of the car was once again drowned in uncomfortable silence.

Yet miles before the uncharacteristic guilt for driving her sullen could even _begin_ to eat at him, she was at it again—thumb at her mouth as she gnawed on an abused cuticle, her other arm hooked around her knees, hugging herself, while her feet bounced against the dash, again and again. A knuckle joined in, banging at the clouded glass of her window to some unheard tempo, her timing as erratic as her pulse.

At wit's end, Damon took in a long breath and tried to concentrate on anything but the girl beside him. _Really_ tried . . . It didn't work. So he tried something else. "The quicker your heart beats, the fiercer your blood flows."

That stopped her. Glancing over at him, her facial expression vacant, she arched an eyebrow. "So?"

Damon kept his gaze trained on the road ahead of him. "_So_, it's kind of distracting."

She took less than a second to absorb that before he heard the hitch of irritation in her breathing pattern. "Gee, I'm so sorry," she drawled, dripping with scathing sarcasm. "I'll try to make it flow quieter for you, _sweetheart_."

The rigid edge to his posture gave out with a deep sigh. Letting his eyes flutter shut, Damon pinched the bridge of his nose and forced his grip on the wheel to relax. "It's late," he said softly. "You're dead tired." The sunken bruises below her eyes and the stressed rhythm of her heartbeat were plain enough to convey to him just how awful she must be feeling, how ragged. "Just get some rest."

Elena opened her mouth to argue, only to catch herself before any sound slipped out. She heaved a shuddering sigh and dropped her legs from the dashboard. "I'd argue, but you're right. I'm going to be completely useless if I don't sleep." She made a move to hop into the back to stretch out on the seat.

"Yeah," he muttered quietly. "'Cause that's what I was thinking of: your usefulness."

She was halfway over the seat and into the back when that made her pause. Tossing a look over her shoulder at him, she sighed again. "Well, what were you thinking of, Damon?"

He felt a twinge of resentment coil within, but he wasn't sure whether it was for her or directed at himself. "Nothing you'd want to talk about."

Her brow drew down. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What do you think?"

"Look, if there's something you want to say then just say it. I'm too out of it to figure out your inconsistent subtext right now." Huffing, she flopped back into her seat, narrowing her eyes at him.

Damon let out a small whoosh of air, white-knuckling the wheel in frustration. He didn't want to get into this. He knew enough about Elena's temper to know that it would be best to just leave it alone. But a part of him obviously wasn't satisfied with that. "Do you know why I didn't want you coming with me?"

She shifted in her seat at that, pressing her back against the door so that she faced him, though his physical attention was pointedly focused on the road ahead. "Because," she murmured. "It could be dangerous."

"No," he rebuffed, not looking at her. "I know you can handle yourself."

"Then why?"

"_Because, Elena_. Because you should be at home, taking care of yourself, not chasing after my foolish brother and stressing out about whatever mess he's gotten himself into."

She chaffed at that, crossing her arms as a shield. "I'm fine."

Damon looked at her then, and his dark gaze went right through her, seeping beneath her flesh to twist around her insides with wordless demands and awkward desires. "No," he said, deadly serious. "You're not."

"I _am_," she snapped, slanting upward with an almost desperate ferocity that came suddenly enough to induce whiplash. "Is that what you think now? That I'm broken or something? That I need to be at home _fixing_ myself?"

He turned back to the road then, jaw clenching, eyes shutting briefly with regret and frazzled defeat. "That's not what I meant."

But she couldn't let it go. It had already infected her. "I'm not just suddenly damaged goods, Damon. I'm _fine_."

"Elena—"

"_No_," she cut him off, her teeth grinding painfully. "You're not going to keep throwing this in my face every time you feel like it. These things happen. It's over and done with now. I'm fine. I'm _going_ to be fine," she insisted fiercely. "I just need you to leave me alone about it."

"You want to pretend it never happened?" he asked in a strangled voice, his fists clenching around the steering wheel, his Adam's apple quavering as he swallowed.

A sort of defiant calm overcame her then. She leaned back, taking a good look at him. "No. I know what happened to me, Damon. Pretending isn't going to help." She paused, only for a quick moment to gather her will. "I was kidnapped by some psycho stalker because I look like someone that left a lot of people with a serious hankering for vengeance. I was used as a puppet so that freak could play out his fantasies." She gave a choked laugh of bitterness at that, shaking her head. "Because God knows, one way or the other, it always seems to come back to Katherine, doesn't it?"

"That's not—" He stopped abruptly, just realizing he'd lost the words and couldn't retrieve them. What was he supposed to say?

She'd told him. Over and over again, she'd told him that she was in love. She'd told him that she had accepted knowing he still loved Katherine, still wanted Katherine. She even offered to help him accomplish his mission—which had seriously derailed as of late. She let him have her, let him in, while this connection between them was ever-deepening. Never demanding to iron out what would happen between them afterward, once he had his old love back. She'd been nothing but strangely compliant under the absurd circumstances they found themselves in.

And what had he done? He'd thrown that graciousness in her face. Again and again, he'd given her more reasons to despise him. Such as treating her horribly to begin with, because he was too much of a child to admit to himself that he felt something for her, and reacting so violently whenever he suspected foul play, which kept turning out unjustified, yet he never learned. Every cruel word, every malicious jab, every time he used his sway to stir her, tormenting, there was too much to keep track of. It was too much of a constant. It seemed that was all their relationship—whatever sort that it was—consisted of. Together, they were this undying struggle, pulling and pushing back and forth, swinging from unhealthy extremes, hurting and healing one another over and over in this endless circle they danced.

Still, through it all, she held herself open for him, letting him inside, offering up that painfully unadulterated heart of hers. Unthinkingly, she shared a limitless touch of warmth, and those few beautiful aspects of humanity, awakening parts of him he'd been sure were long dead and gone.

Then, for added salt to the wounds, that leech Calhoun had to come along and exacerbate the issue, simultaneously tamping out a bit of that incandescent fire that smoldered so innately within her.

Life, fate, chance, happenstance, luck, destiny, whatever the fuck was up there controlling this playing board was a _son of a bitch_.

"This isn't about her," he said at last, proceeding with caution. "It's about you, Elena, and what you need to do in order to heal from this. Because, trust me on this one, you _are_ in need of healing . . . No matter what you may want to believe right now."

"What is it you want me to do?" she asked stiffly, tilting her head at him, eyes expectant. The man could see a trap when he was presented with one. And the lock of her jaw told him to tread carefully.

"I honestly don't know," he admitted, then paused, flexing his hand on the wheel, the other hooked over the seat between them. But she remained silent and waiting, so he went on. "But I don't think this here is a good idea. You can only distract yourself from the pressure of it for so long before you fall apart. If you let it build up, just trying to pretend you're fine, the fallout will be worse."

Elena had an air of stillness about her, one that set him on edge and had him feeling awkward and unsure of himself. "Since you seem to have all the answers," she started tersely, "why don't you enlighten me? Just how am I supposed to deal with that pressure you're so certain I'm feeling? How should I go about _recovering_, Damon?"

The vampire let out a sharp hiss of air, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I don't want to fight with you."

"We're not fighting," she snapped. "I'm asking you. I want to know. Really."

"No, you don't. You want to lash out. Not that I don't deserve worse."

"But God forbid Damon Salvatore be accommodating for once in his miserable life," she bit out at him, feeling a vicious need to be vicious. "You can dish it out like a pro but all of a sudden you can't take it?"

"If that's what you need then give it your best shot," he answered almost placidly. "I'm sure you can hurt me good, princess. Who the hell knows? It might even make you feel better. So let's have it."

At first, Elena's only response was silence. She stared at him, her hostility dissipating even as she struggled to hold onto it, the frustration of that rippling outward, engulfing her in a sea of frazzling realization. "Well," she said in a thin tone, her voice trembling with precarious control. "Now that you've given your approval, what's the point?"

"The bitter taste of payback?" he suggested lightly, dark eyebrows rising.

Elena fell away again with a tired sigh, pressed between the seat and the door, metal digging into her back. "I don't want that," she whispered in defeat. "I just feel so . . ."

"It's going to take time to come back," he told her, clenching his fingers into the palm of his hand when he had to bite down on the impulse to reach for her. They were still in a weird place when it came to touching. "You'll get there. You just have to hold on."

"See, I _know_ that. But I'm not sure whether I _believe_ it anymore."

Silence enveloped them at that, swallowing the world whole until all that remained were the sounds of the tires over wet pavement, the slosh of flooding waters and the sharp sleeting of rain as it chinked against the metal of the car.

"I was raped, Damon." She said it abruptly, simply, and appreciated the way it made him flinch with a surprising streak of cruelty. "I can't get rid of the feeling of spiders crawling across my skin, his hands and his mouth and his body. I can't stand remembering the way he tore into me. It wasn't enough to bite or to take blood. He had to ravage to be satisfied."

Damon looked as if he was going to be sick, and he was well aware of it, which was why he kept his face turned from her. "He needed you to suffer," he said below his breath, distant and strained. "It intensifies the . . ." _Experience_.

Peripherally, she watched him with knowing eyes, an encompassing ennui taking hold of her. "Worst of all is that my memory is still choppy. From the drugs he slipped me and from the wolf taking over. It's like I'm not sure just what was real and what wasn't. I can't trust my own mind anymore."

"Elena . . ." Where were words when he needed them most?

"I was used like some kind of disposable ragdoll," she confessed, gripping at the frayed top edge of the seat, smooth leather biting into her fingertips as her heart thumped claustrophobically against her ribcage. "And I just don't know what I'm supposed to do with that."

"I wish I had an answer for you," he whispered, at last withdrawing inside the shell of his interior armor. "What I did—"

"—is not the same thing," she finished firmly, pressing her lips into a hard line. Her eyes shined with conviction, telling him to leave it alone. "Not everything is about you."

Looking into her unwavering stare, Damon felt another wash of awe come over him for this girl, and in turn suffered a crippling reminder that there really was nothing good he could do for her. He only ever managed to bring her down.

"You should get some rest," he murmured, keeping his voice free of dejection, unable to take the pressure of her attention centered on him for one more minute. "We've still got a long ways to go."

Elena pulled back with a jerk at that, clearing her throat, schooling her face. "Ahem, yeah, rest, right." She turned, coming onto her knees on the seat before she climbed over into the back and curled up on her side, facing away from him.

Damon's eyes drew to the rearview mirror, watching her practically press her face into the leather of the backseat to hide, her shoulders hunching with tension and discomfort. He forced his focus back on the road, but his attention lingered on her, listening to the beat of her heart and the soft in and out of her breath and the shaky pulsation that sang through her rigid body.

He allowed the symphony of her presence to soothe his inner rioting, and surprisingly, her pulse evened out into sleep fairly quickly, leaving him alone for his thoughts to eat away at him for the many miles ahead.

_Elena found herself lying on a bed of rose petals._

_The array slithered across her flesh like silk, getting lost in folds of free-flowing dark hair. The sound of storming surrounded her, rainwater drizzling patterns across the glass walls of the bedroom. The floor was obsidian marble, dark as night, and the sheets bled slivers of pristine whiteness through the vivid carnelian of the roses. Illumination came from the gray day outside the four walls of glass, streaking rays of gloomy skylight in through the prisms of rainfall._

_The world outside the room of windows was nothing but forest as far as the eye could see. She had no idea where she was or how she'd gotten here. Then again, she couldn't care less to find out._

_Lowering herself into the sea of petals, she closed her eyes and stretched out like a cat, enjoying the peace of this world. But she wasn't supposed to be here. This place wasn't meant for her. So she had no way to hold onto it when the world began to melt, her bed of roses bleeding into the cold soil of earth, pitter-patter of rain melding into the quiet cacophony of nighttime wilderness, and she was left lying on the dewy ground of a forest._

_Gray died, ushering in a darkness that threatened to suffocate._

_The hoot of an owl up in the treetops above filled her ears, unable to finish the call before it was overwhelmed by an unearthly wail that seemed to come from nowhere yet everywhere at once. Birds in the trees leapt, cawing and screeching in fear as they flew away._

_Silence plummeted, the drawn-out wail dying into strangled whimpers._

"_Hello?" she called, pushing to her feet and padding tentatively through the forest in search of that heartwrenching sound. "Where are you?"_

_That familiar snowy owl perched in a branch up ahead, golden eyes peering into her soul as she neared. She remembered those eyes watching her, always watching her._

_Her foot landed on a protruding root and she winced. The owl gave another sharp hoot at that moment, swiveling its head. Going against instinct, she followed the spooky creature's attention, moving deeper into the forest's darkness as she did so._

_That was when she saw the girl, the mirror image. She wore an old-fashioned nightshirt, the white of the fabric muddied and seams torn. The hem of the chemise skirted her ankles, her feet bare and dirty and bloodstained. Her curly hair hung in knots down her back, a fringe of bangs falling into her eyes as she held her head low._

_The mirror image sunk suddenly to her knees in the rich soil, only then did Elena notice the shadow of a man standing over her. A shock of fair hair that brushed his collar and porcelain skin were highlighted in the darkness of the forest, a young man's face, a sleek body, shrouded in old-timey attire, seeming disproportionately extravagant._

_The mirror image hunched over, bringing her delicate hands up to her face, dipping trembling palms in the thick tracks of tears across her cheeks. "What have you done to me?" she asked, somewhere between startled and broken._

_The voice was so familiar, the ache so intense, that it rippled shock through Elena, making her knees quiver for a long moment. She had to reach out and plant her hand against the biting bark of a nearby tree to keep from losing her balance._

"_I have given you a gift, childe. Be grateful," the man answered in a superior tone. He was completely untouched by her misery. "I have made you magnificent."_

_The mirror image snapped her head up at that, narrowing bloodshot eyes and tilting her chin with an edge of defiance. "You have made me a monster, Sinclair."_

"_This is what you want," he told her, his voice a seductive whisper that caressed their skins, making the mirror image angrier and dizzying Elena. "This is what you asked for."_

"_I never asked for this!" she spat, clenching her hands in clumps of earth by her knees. "Not this."_

"_You were hollow," he argued smoothly, stepping toward her until he towered like some immense god. "You wished to feel alive again. You asked me to take your agony away. That is what I have done for you."_

_The mirror image shook her head, denying fiercely, even as her body quaked. "No. You lied to me. You were trying to trick me. But I saw through you. I told you to leave. You should have listened. Now you have ruined me!"_

_That was when the towering god looked up, raising his piercing gaze away from the mirror image and finding where Elena stood instantly. When their eyes met, the rest of the world melted away again. The darkness bled the trees into blurs, making her lost._

_Terror throttled her, pushing her hammering heart up into her throat. _Run_, yelled a voice in her mind. _Run!_ But it was too late._

_He was coming for her._

_Elena spun, pivoting on her foot and darting off into the melting forest. But she couldn't find her way through. She was losing the world. She had nowhere to run._

_Arms latched around her from behind, tearing a desperate scream from her throat. She thrashed and bucked, fighting against him. But he was too immense, too inexorable. He had her. And he was never letting go._

Elena came awake with a jerk, gasping for air, cringing under the pain of her raging heartbeat and panic. As her terror faded with the indistinguishable memory of the dream, she realized that the unbreakable hold on her was as real as ever. She may have been liberated from the recesses of her mind, but she was far from truly free.

The car had been swerved onto the shoulder of the two-lane road, parking there with the purr of the engine still humming along with the patter of rain. The scent of spearmint and leather coated her olfactory senses, settling the comfort of intense familiarity somewhere deep inside of her.

_Damon_. The warmth of him pervaded her, the substantial presence of his body aligned with hers, pressing solidly into her back. He had her almost upright in his lap where he was propped against the side wall of the backseat. His arms were latched around her body from behind. He had her. And he was never letting go.

Elena let out a long breath of air, the tense-enough-to-shatter edge of her body melting along with it, warming until she was lying loose against him, her hands clutching softly at his forearms that were latched across her chest.

A second later, his cool breath whispered across the rippled surface of her hair, eliciting shivers at the nape of her neck. "It's going to be okay, Elena. I promise."

"I know," she replied in a voice that was held together carefully, schooling herself back to that calm veneer she needed. "How long was I out?"

"Little less than an hour," he said, rubbing his hand up and down her slender bicep. "We're about to pass through a city, so if you need to stop, now's the time. There won't be anything but vacant land for a long while."

Pressing her lips into a firm line, Elena nodded.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah," she answered a bit too quickly. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just . . . worried about Stefan," she sort of halfway lied. A twinge of regret seeped into her when she felt him stiffen, reminding her of what a horrible place they were in right now, and how much she wished things were different. But there was nothing she could do about that now, so instead of wallowing in her helplessness, she concentrated on the concern for Stefan's situation. "God only knows what's been going on all this time."

"He's fine," Damon insisted dismissively, his hold tightening unconsciously on her. "I'd know if my brother were dead. I'd know."

Elena gripped his arm firmer, pressing her head back into the crook of his neck, basking in the warm hum it evoked within the primitive core of her. "There's a long way between alive and okay."

He leaned into her, his mouth whispering across the shell of her ear, shielded by layers of fallen hair. "Everything will be fine, you'll see."

"You can't know that, Damon." But before she'd even finished her rebuke, he was jostling her, shifting her around toward him.

He stroked his hands through her messy hair, cradling her face in his grasp as he looked into her eyes. "Trust me," he firmly implored. "I know I haven't earned it. I know I don't deserve it. But I'm asking you anyway. Trust me."

And she forgot to breathe. "Damon . . ."

"I promise you, I'm going to make sure that you don't regret it. I can take care of you, Elena. I can."

Lowering her eyelids, she took his hands in hers and pulled them down to her lap with a despondent sigh. "I know," she told him tiredly, her voice soft and lacking vehemence. "I know you can."

That was all she could say on the matter. Looking into his painfully avid eyes, the crystal blues burning through her, making her want to cry for some inexplicable reason, she just couldn't say anything else. How could she possibly trust him? As much as she wanted to, how was she supposed to force that on herself? It just wasn't possible. What he wanted didn't matter. It was only words, only sentiment, which was not always enough to change something so deeply ingrained within a person. But she couldn't tell him that. Even if she was brave enough to, the words stuck in her throat.

So she gave up on speaking. Words were only words, anyway. In the end, they were never worth much. Instead, she drew one hand up and smoothed it across his jawline, sliding her fingers into his short hair and scrunching them through the tips, dragging fingernails gingerly along his scalp, pulling him closer.

Just as their mouths were ready to meet, a freight rig rushed by, honking its horn and splashing a tidal wave over the side of the Camaro, drowning them in a downpour of puddles that leaked through the seals of the convertible top.

"Oh, just lovely," he growled, sounding lackluster with his aggravation as he swiped a hand down his face, flinging away the excess of water that hit them.

Elena couldn't control the soft bark of laughter that escaped her, vibrating huskily through her throat and easing some of the pressure off of her chest. Her hands fell to his shoulders, scrunching absently in the wet leather of his jacket.

At her smile, Damon's face smoothed out, his eyes growing brighter. "C'mere."

Enjoying the glow she felt, the girl poked herself in the chest and raised her eyebrows at him. "_Moi?_" she chimed, shaking her head teasingly from side to side and slanting backward. She planted her other hand lightly to his chest to keep him at bay. "_Mm_, I do believe I'd rather—"

She broke off into a breathless squeal when he lunged, grabbing her around the waist and hurling her down onto her back along the seat, mercilessly tickling at her ribs as she threw her head back and laughed, squirming beneath him.

"_Day-Hey-Mon_!" she whined dramatically, struggling to breathe through his assault and her relentless giggling. "Stop, stop. Seriously," she demanded, plummeting off into a soft whisper as she took his hands and held them still against her sternum, their gazes catching by accident.

"Elena," he said suddenly, sounding caught off guard. He was propped above her, keeping his body from touching her with an elbow against the seat by her head and a knee on the floor. But their faces were so close that his cool breath brushed across her cheek, making her lips part, while his intensely focused stare made her mouth go dry.

He stroked the pad of his thumb against her temple, whispering across her dark eyelashes, making her lids grow heavy. And when he dusted astray hair from her face, coaxing it back to the rest of her damp mane, she felt a need to say the something that had lodged itself in her throat.

"You can kiss me now," she whispered with a sense of evanescence, looking up at him with hooded eyes, "if you want."

"I want," he retorted without missing a beat. Then he tunneled his fingers into the folds of her hair where it splayed across the leather seat above them before he ducked down, bringing his mouth to the tip of her chin and working his way up gradually.

As his long-lashed eyes swept shut, Elena kept hers attentive, watching him. When his mouth found hers, fragmented frissons overtook her, stealing her breath away with that rush of urgent electricity. It was that needy connection, where passion reawakened and synced up once more to the one it had been missing. How only several days could feel deep down like years on end without something so natural, so imperative, only the gods could know.

An explosion lit up from within, making her shift instantly from hesitant to wanton and desperate as if a switch had been flipped.

Elena arched insistently up off of the seat, her hands digging into the corded muscle of his back and twisting in his soft hair, while her knees bent, coming up to hug his hips with her thighs as she pressed into his torso, raking his lip between her teeth before delving inside his mouth, and letting the tangle of their tongues soothe something deep and aching she'd completely forgotten about.

"Elena," he managed to drag out between hot kisses, breathless and strained for coherency. "El—"

"_Damon_," she whimpered, rolling against him, tugging him closer, ever closer, and letting the warm familiarity of his solid presence sweep her through the undercurrent of an overemotional tsunami. She wanted to press her face into his shoulder, close her eyes, and breathe him in deep. But she lacked the calm for that, too edgy with impatience.

He let out a low groan at the way she uttered his name, burying his head in her hair at the crook of her throat, screwing his eyes shut against the assault of sensation and desire. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't survive at the mercy of her fervent intensity. Except that when her little hands went to the buckle of his belt, fumbling yet somehow deftly managing to undo the clasp and fling it out of her way, the haze of hedonism cleared, leaving him with a stark certainty. _You can NOT do this._

"Elena," he said, breaking away from her hungry kiss and trapping her quick hands in the circle of his own before she had the chance to get his pants undone. "Elena. Elena. Elena, listen."

The girl drew away, flopping back onto the seat with a rush of exhaled air, blinking the haze from her eyes even as her brow creased with bewilderment. "What?"

Looking down at her, seeing cheeks flushed and eyelashes heavy and red lips swollen, Damon knew for certain that there was a God up there somewhere who specifically hated his guts. Even still, he managed to sound assured and levelheaded when he told her "We're not going to do this."

"We're not?"

"No," he answered, biting back a wince. "We're not."

"Oh," she said softly, her voice quiet, and he could see how badly she was absorbing this just by the quick flickers that passed over her dazed features. "Oh. Right . . ."

"Elena," he tried lamely when she brushed out from under him and came upright, dusting herself off and tucking her tousled hair behind her ears, keeping her face out of his sight.

"Just forget it," she told him, shrugging a shoulder, trying and failing to sound dismissively blasé. She was a horrible liar, nowhere near close to succeeding in masking the hurt that wounded her. It seemed a bit out of proportion.

He let out a heavy sigh and dragged a hand through his hair as he watched the set of her shoulders grow stiffer by the second. Damn it, how he wished to be able to touch that mind of hers. Being left so flagrantly out in the dark wasn't something he was used to handling, and with her, it was quickly driving him to a brink he hadn't known existed.

Could she have possibly taken this as a sign that being used by Calhoun somehow made her less desirable? he wondered. How ridiculous. That couldn't be it.

"Elena—"

"The rain's starting to let up," she interrupted awkwardly, starting for the front seat. He reached out on instinct, grabbing her by the arms, keeping her from running away. She stilled in his grasp, but refused to look his way.

"You're not ready," he explained, slightly exasperated. "It's too soon."

Her mouth remained tight. "Okay."

"I'm just trying to do the right thing here," he huffed, pulling her closer, trying to convince her to look at him. "You taking it badly isn't exactly helping."

"It's fine," she said, still as stoic as ever, having withdrawn into that deep place where connecting to her was impossible. "You're right. Besides, we should keep moving." She paused then, scrolling her eyes down to where his hand still had a grip on her. "The sooner we get to Stefan, the better."

A faint echo of queasiness slithered through him, and Damon let his hands drop away from her like she wanted. "That's not fair."

"Yeah," she replied, going cold as an ice queen as her chin lifted. "But when has _fair_ ever been a part of our equation?"

He watched her vault the seat and land fluidly in the front passenger side, shifting herself toward the door that ran along her side, tilting away from him. He sat there for a moment, not quite stunned, more pondering. But when he heaved a sharp sigh of defeat and climbed back behind the wheel, he was back to his usual self.

"Throw it in my face, why don't you?" he grumbled belatedly, narrowly below her level of hearing, as he shifted out of park and flicked on the windshield wipers.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," he growled, giving a good jerk of the wheel, timed with a stomp of his foot over the accelerator, and had them swerving abruptly onto the road, returning to pace.

And several dozen miles down the road, the two were still sulking in their respective corners. He'd been right about the upcoming dead zone, and that stranded region seemed to extend to signal towers as well, because the radio proved useless. So there they were, suffocating in silence with nothing but the roar of racing down the slick interstate to exacerbate the discomfort of intense quiet.

"How much farther?" she asked out of the silence, keeping her face turned to the blurry window.

Damon gave her a belligerent grunt, saying "'Nother 500 miles at least."

Elena sunk lower in her seat, sighing. "Just perfect."

"I don't even want to hear it," he harrumphed. "If you had . . ."

"What is it?" she asked, perking up with curiosity as his voice trailed off, brow creasing. She followed his line of sight through the windshield and squinted, zeroing in on the hazy blur of color up ahead, emerging out of the endless gray.

"_Great_," he groaned, easing off the accelerator as they neared the flashing lights.

Something like anxiety unfurled in the pit of her stomach as she frowned out the windshield and tightened her arms around her midriff. "What's going on?"

"Some sort of barricade," he answered offhandedly, coasting to a stop as a traffic director waved a neon glowstick from side to side over his head. "The road's most likely been flooded."

"But there's another route around, right?"

Damon tossed her a sidelong glance, digging his cell from a pocket and tossing it into her lap. "Find out," he said, then bumped the Camaro into park and hopped out, slamming the door behind him.

Elena watched him trek toward the officer with the glowstick, who had his squad car parked in the center of the road, blocking off half of both lanes, before she turned her attention to his phone, searching for a mapping engine.

A few moments later, Damon jumped back in, shaking his head like a dog and sending dozens of droplets from his slick hair to slap her in the face. "This route won't be accessible until morning. They've got it blocked off for the next three parishes," he said, shrugging his soaked jacket off of his shoulder. "Did you find a way around?"

Wiping her face off with a damp sleeve in between unhappy glares, Elena shoved the phone at him with a huff. "_You_ figure it out. No freaking signal. Not a single bar. Plus your battery's about dead."

"So that's a bitchy _no_ then," he muttered, tossing the cell into the fresh ashtray below the dash and shifting the car into reverse, swinging them around to backtrack.

Thirteen miles back a ways, they had crossed through the outskirts of some place called La Grange, Alabama. Though the _Entering La Grange_ sign was clearly visible behind those layers of overgrown ivy hanging down over it, there seemed to be no actual town attached to the welcoming. Regardless, Damon swerved onto the exit and left the interstate behind, curving below an overpass and crossing railroad tracks to be dumped onto a one-lane street made of gravel.

"Oh, yeah, this is just what we're looking for," she sniped, arms folded crossly over her chest. "You're gonna get us lost."

Damon's jaw clenched, his patience straining, hands tightening on the wheel. "If it doesn't pan out, I'll just get back on the interstate and try the next exit." Then he tossed her a sardonic look. "Does that work for you, princess?"

"As if it would matter," she bit back sweetly, suddenly looking like an acrid taste had just tainted her mouth.

A scathing retort caught at the tip of his tongue, and he held it in, relief swarming when his attention shifted to a turnoff up ahead. "Look."

They neared an oncoming clearing, bringing the sight of a dimly-lit gas station and the adjacent convenience store into focus.

"Perfect," Elena murmured under her breath, eyes on the station. "We've entered _Wrong Turn_ territory."

"So it's a little decrepit," he added with an irreverent shrug of his shoulder, swerving the Camaro into the station and parking alongside a rusty pump. "If any deformed cannibals try to mutilate you—"

"Let me guess," she deadpanned. "You'll save me?"

Shutting off the engine, he threw her a wry glance. "I was thinking more along the lines of run like hell and I'm sure they won't catch you. You're pretty spry for a little thing."

"My white knight," she drawled, offering him a grimace as she popped the passenger door open and climbed out, her muscles stiff with disuse.

The downpour lacked the ferocity here in the backwoods that it had on the main interstate, lessening into a drizzle.

As she stood stretching, Damon jerked his jacket the rest of the way off and tossed it into the back, then slammed his door shut and turned his gaze on her, jangling the keys around his index finger. "I'm going to go see about directions."

She nodded, casting a distasteful glance at their wastelandish surroundings. "And I'm going to try to find a low toxicity restroom."

"You'd be better off with the woods," he commented, rounding the car and striding across the lot, heading for the convenience store.

"It's called a _swamp_," she called after him, leaning her back against the side of the car. "And you're insane if you think you're getting rid of me that easily."

She watched him disappear inside the store, pricking her ears to hear that he found a middle-aged lady claiming to be the station's attendant behind the counter. Initial impression made her doubt said attendant was exactly eager to be helpful.

_Good luck with that_, she thought for him, zipping up her jacket and making her way around the outskirts of the station, following the proper arrows.

She would've stayed to continue eavesdropping but her bladder was ready to burst. And the sleeting rain might have turned into sprinkling, but the wind was still freaking _icy_, so she was freezing her ass off, even at the higher core body temp she ran at now.

The door to the unisex restroom, which was more of an outhouse attached to the back of the convenience store than anything else, hung off the hinges, so she had to lift it up as she swung it open, then drag it closed across the gravel-coated cement. There was no latch, so she could only haphazardly prop it closed and hope the wind didn't blow it away before she was finished.

What glimpses she could see of the floor under that damn flickering fluorescent bulb above her head was reminiscent of a movie theatre. She was glad that the lighting was so horrendous. God forbid this place ever be subjected to the light of day.

Damon was right. She'd have been better off with the swamp.

The worst part of all was that when she stuck her hands under the murky water of the sink's faucet, she realized belatedly that there was no soap. That was just the last straw. So with a sharp hiss and an angry kick to the wall, she spun on her heel and stomped out, letting the door crash crookedly off its hinges behind her.

Simmering with irritation, she stood in the drizzle, letting whistling wind slice at her face while she wiped her hands clean on the damp thighs of her trousers. But before she could get back to the car, a silhouette of gray came around the corner, stalking toward her without purpose.

A youngish man in ripped denim and work boots, he was. His face was worn, leathery with too much sun exposure and a particularly bumpy nose that only came from being broken more than once. And even though his aim seemed to be the bathroom and she told herself she was being silly, Elena couldn't stop the hitch of dread in her breath. Her heart began pounding harder with every step closer he took, thumbs hooked through the belt loops of his pants. Dizzy swirls of panic swept over her.

His eyes were on her. She didn't like that. At all. It unsettled something fierce and primal inside of her, fueled by fear, and made her want to escape. But they were the only two people around. She couldn't blame him for having his eyes on her. She'd have her eyes on him, probably, if their positions were reversed.

She was only being ridiculous, she told herself, scolding. But she couldn't help it.

Elena stood frozen like a deer caught in headlights, waiting breathlessly for him to pass by so she could run. But when he reached her, his path never diverted left to the door he was supposed to be aiming for. No, instead, he circled halfway to the right, herding her between his looming frame and the crumbling wall of the building.

Before she could stop herself, Elena took a step back from him, getting herself closer to the wall instead of out in the open like her raging heart needed. At that, the man let out a lecherous smile, one that tried and failed to be innocently friendly.

"Hi there," he announced, advancing into her personal space and making Elena go rigid as her wide eyes watched him.

"Hello." Her voice sounded foreign. Her knees were feeling weak. Her head was beginning to cloud with strained incoherency.

"Well, aren't you a pretty little thing," he said in an amiable tone, belying the overt intentions of his calculated movements that trapped her. "We don't get many strangers 'round these parts, ma'am."

"We're just passing through," she replied, voice coming out a bit too rushed. "And my—um—my—uh—he's waiting for me. I'm taking—longer—I should—I—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy there, darling," he cut in, chuckling lowly at her bizarre antics. "Take a big gulp of air before ya pass out, will ya?"

_Don't call me darling. Don't call me darling. Don't call me darling. _"I—I—I—" She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't calm down. She felt out of control. She felt _wrong_. She needed him to _go away_.

"What the hell's the matter with you, girl?" he demanded, sounding put-out.

The man's hand landed on her shoulder as she tipped forward, and Elena couldn't hold back the scream that tore from her throat, or keep from lashing out, shoving him with a burst of her preternatural strength, sending him flying. As the man skidded across gravel and into swampy grass, she threw her hands to her face, gripping at her head as she doubled over, hyperventilating in a desperate search for sense.

When the man clambered angrily to his feet, she looked up at him through shards of drenched hair that hung in her face, hands still cradling, waist still bent.

"_Fucking psycho_!" he swore at her, jerking at the lapels of his denim jacket. The enraged glint in his eyes pushed her farther over the brink. But before he could stomp after her, a blur of motion brushed between them, circling him, bleeding into the strong winds that whistled around them.

It all happened so fast, from the moment she first screamed to the resounding _crunch_ of bone, until everything seemed to fall still as she watched the man's body collapse into the mud, his eyes wide and frozen.

"_Elena_." Damon's voice filtered in through the fog, trickling into her awareness with his hands taking hold of her face and his crystalline eyes peering into her own vacant ones, grim but unwavering. "_Elena_?"

When the girl remained unresponsive, Damon heaved a heavy sigh and hooked an arm around her waist, hauling her up. With her tucked limply into his side, he left the fallen body behind and rounded to the front of the station, pulling her inside out of the rain. Then he set her down on a rickety stool at the end of the counter, ignoring the prickly clerk's perplexed scowl.

But when he drew away, he found her hand latched around his forearm, clinging despite the blank way her eyes stared off into infinity. "It's okay," he said, delicately removing her hand. "Just stay put."

She nodded thickly, still not registering.

"Alrighty then," he drawled under his breath, frowning as he turned from her and made his way to the waiting clerk.

Distracted as he was, it took less than a brief moment compelling the haggard lady behind the counter to destroy any recent footage from the one security camera hung up in the corner by the door and to then forget that they were ever there. Once that was taken care of, he gathered a zombielike Elena and ushered her outside. He deposited her in the Camaro before going back to handle the dead man.

Blinking, she watched him drag the lifeless stranger around the corner and down into the ditch that ringed the edges of the station. She couldn't seem to imagine where on earth he was going, so she reached for the latch and pushed the car door open, climbing out onto shaky feet and stumbling carelessly after him.

He dragged the body behind him, his grasp on one denim-covered wrist, delving deeper into the darkening shroud of trees, sloping down a gradual incline. She followed dazedly, her shoes crunching obnoxiously over sticks and leaves and protruding roots as she sunk in the muddy quicksand. They continued on until he came upon the shallow drop-off of swamp.

She stopped then, a ways behind, and pressed a hand to a nearby tree, letting the bark bite into her numb skin. Without much ado at all, he hauled the gangly carcass up off of the ground and tossed it into the middle of the swampy pond, ceremoniously dusting his hands together once he was free of it.

Elena watched him turn and trek up the incline toward her, coming slowly but certainly out of her shock.

When he was standing right before her, his beautiful features held carefully expressionless, she let her lips fall apart, eyes widening at him, head tilting.

"You killed him," she said, sounding stunned and unbelieving before it all snapped into place and the last shreds of detachment shattered. "You _killed_ him!" she screeched through gnashed teeth, her dirty palm swiping harshly across his jaw before she even knew what she'd planned to do.

"Yes," he replied emptily, bringing a hand to his chin at the lingering sting. "And I admit . . . I overreacted."

Elena's face scrunched and she shook her head at him, outrageously incredulous. "Overreacted?" she echoed. "You killed someone. He didn't do anything! And you just _killed_ him!"

Damon's dark brow drew down at that, his careful expression bristling. "He may not have gotten the chance but he'd damn well intended on it."

"No! I freaked out. I was being stupid. He didn't—"

"And you don't think there's a reason you reacted so forcefully?" he threw back in her face, shoulders setting rigidly as he huffed out a long sigh. "Look, don't think of it as a great loss. He wasn't a good person."

She turned away at that, shaking her head, shutting her eyes. "You don't know that."

"Yes, I do." He rounded on her, blocking her escape. "Bad people carry a taint to them, one that guy carried, like I carry. Trust me. I know what I'm talking about. The world's better off without him."

She faltered then, her body stopping as a sudden wash of sadness swept over her. Licking her lips, a hopeless expression slithered in. "But you just . . . killed him. So he wasn't a good person. That doesn't make it right."

The crease in Damon's brow deepened. He moved in front of her, ducking at the knee to try to see into her downcast eyes. "But it makes it a little less wrong, doesn't it?"

"_No_," she snapped, shoving him backward off his balance and into a nearby pine. "No, it doesn't make it less wrong! How do you not understand that these things are important? I'm so tired of everyone dying around me! I'm tired of you killing random people! I don't care what kind of person they are, it's still murder!"

"Like what you did to Calhoun?" he snapped back, his angry expression immediately slackening with shock as he heard himself.

Elena took a trembling step backward and he felt a gut-wrenching pang twist through his insides at the utterly stricken look that crossed her face. As if she'd been slapped.

"No," he said on a rushed breath, pushing away from the tree she'd knocked him into and starting for her. "Forget I said that. Elena, do you hear me? That was stupid, beyond stupid. Don't listen to me."

But he could see by the hazy look in her eyes as she stared at anything but him that she'd tuned out. She was . . . broken again.

"Right," she whispered in a vacant voice that sent shivers up his spine, "because bad people don't deserve to live."

"Elena—"

She backed away, flinching from his touch, refusing him with a jerky shake of her head. "Killing killers isn't a big deal or anything. People like us."

"No!" he snapped, grabbing her arm to keep her. "Like _me_," he denied, not even caring how desperate he sounded. "Not like us. Like me, Elena. Like me. _Not_ you."

She looked up at him then, her dazed stare connecting with his frenetic gaze and remaining unreachable. "I'm just going to wait in the car," she told him, breaking away from his hold and turning to stumble her way up the incline.

Damon whirled around, slamming the heel of his palm into the closest pine, relishing the way it splintered beneath his frustration, his power. "_Goddamn it_," he hissed, hanging his head, screwing his eyes shut.

Then, with a steadying breath, he let all of the violence seep out of him, and turned to fall back against the crushed tree, slumping with defeat.

_Make me wanna die_, he thought, watching her go. How was it that she always found a way to make him feel that way? Technically, it was all _his_ doing. Every single time. But it wouldn't be that way if it weren't for that girl.

He just couldn't be the person he needed to be for her. He knew he needed to go against his nature. He maybe even _wanted_ to. But none of that seemed to matter. It just wasn't working.

When he finally returned to the station, he found her sitting on the hood of his Camaro, her shoes propped up on the bumper, her fingertips digging idly into the smooth chrome, her head hung low.

"This is who I am, Elena. Deal with it," he told her softly when he reached her, his hips brushing her knees. He waited for her to lift her head and look at him before he went on. "But don't for one second think that you're anything like me."

She stared at him for a long while, just looking into his eyes, her thoughts whirring beyond her own. Then, just as he was beginning to believe this would never end, she released a quiet sigh and brought her hands up, offering them to him.

"You're not so bad," she decided when he took them, stroking the pads of his thumbs across her palms. Their eyes met and she gave him a sad shrug. "In the scheme of things and all."

Rain glittered in her eyelashes, and even though he wished things could be different for her, he let that go, only to appreciate the moment, the warmth she spread through him. Here like this, staring, Damon realized that there _was_ something he could do for her. And he could do it now.

"You told me I could kiss you if I wanted. Does the offer still stand?"

Elena raised her brow at him, chin tilting, losing a bit of that distance she held an increment at a time. "I suppose so."

Taking her by the nape of the neck, he jerked her lips to him and pressed past the space between them, lowering her down onto her back against the wet hood. Then, with his hands in her hair, he drew back, releasing that tedious control on his bloodlust.

Elena's eyes fluttered open, watching his canines extend and the veins around his eyes run red with need. He used his thumb under her chin to tilt her head up, exposing the tender hollow of her throat, driving her breathy and heavy-lidded. "Damon . . . Wait."

With some effort, he tore his eyes off of the pulsating spot and found hers. "I know," he told her, only to watch comprehension dawn over her drenched features. "Isn't it what you need?"

"Yes," she admitted, licking her lips.

"Can I?"

Elena pressed her mouth into a firm line and gripped at his sides to keep from trembling, giving him one solemn nod.

At that, Damon brushed the sticky tendrils of hair away from her throat and ducked down, laying his mouth to that throbbing pulse point.

The moment lingered on for longer than it needed to before he opened his jaw and plunged, piercing the soft skin there with ease and nearly losing it at that initial gush of blood that scorched his tongue, sending kaleidoscope lights dancing across the inside of his eyelids.

She gasped, arching yearningly as he collapsed on top of her, overtaken by a rush of sensation, a sinner's very first taste of heaven, a junkie's ultimate opiate.

But that was only the beginning, he discovered. Because when he lowered his guard and exposed himself for her, drinking deeply, he was swept into the undercurrent, buckling under the flood. But it was so much more than that. It was opening his mind to hers, like she'd shown him once before when he was too shaken by rage and hurt to understand. It was allowing that burgeoning connection of primitive magic and feral instinct linking them to finally seal.

Neither had consciously realized that they knew how. It was instinct, primal and basic instinct that neither Elena nor Damon had understood until this moment. And as that wolf soul part of her roused, throwing its head back and reveling in the sense of _home_ finally righting, more pieces fell into place and the girl felt a little closer to being whole, closer to being one between human and wolf, less distance, less difference.

As the mating bond came alive and into completion, integrating fluidly within them both, Elena dissolved into a mess of shivers. Tears streaked down her face at the massive release, mingling with rainwater, leaving her nothing more than a quivering form of uselessness, utterly delirious to the world around her.

Meanwhile, Damon withdrew from her throat, blood trickling messily down his chin as he yanked himself off of her. He stumbled backward a step, just one, before falling to his knees against the pavement, floundering beneath the heady rush of it all.

The experience was beyond anything he'd ever imagined. She was laid relentlessly bare for him, every memory, every secret, every thought and feeling, every impression flashing by so fast he hardly knew what to do with it all. Until the explosion calmed and this open link between them settled into something more sedate, leaving him aware of her presence, her state of being, and her life in correlation to his, but leaving out all of the rest, reachable but undemanding.

He had been expecting something like a magical marriage ceremony, something that would make him feel weighed down and vulnerably attached—_chained_ in fact. But this was nowhere close. It was as if, not only his mind, but his entire being had just been flung wide open for her and her alone. He'd never felt so free, so liberated in his life, without restraint or complication. Protected. Loved. Not alone, never alone again.

It was remarkably . . . simple.

"Jesus H. Christ," he murmured breathlessly, letting the awe of the moment hold onto him as he used both the pavement and the Camaro's nose to push himself up to his feet.

By the time his eyesight was clear and he could see properly, Elena was still sprawled across the hood, still crying, her body limp with a delirious smile curving her red lips.

_Lovely_.

Damon took a moment to soak in the sight of her before he took her in his—admittedly—shaky grasp and slid her off the hood. "Come on, wolf girl. Let's get out of here."

"Ah-huh," she murmured, nodding her head up and down and letting out a breathy cadence of laughter as they stumbled their way together into the car.

"That was . . ."

"Ah-huh."

"_Christ_."

"Exactly."

A lot of serene silence followed that.

Through over 900 miles, Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and 13 hours of driving—without counting all of the detours—Damon and Elena made it into Baton Rouge just as early morning twilight was streaking itself across the inky sky.

The rain had eased a little ways beforehand, ushering them into a crystal clear day of weather, which somehow seemed even more foreboding than the relentless storm had been. There was just something _wrong_ about the empty sky and the world here being quiet enough to make the caw of crows flying overhead seem unnaturally stark as they drove through the eerily unmoving streets.

Elena was curled up in the passenger seat, resting her head against the window and letting her eyes flutter shut. She was past the point of exhaustion and onto living zombie territory. So when the Camaro lurched to a sudden halt in the parking lot of a rundown Comfort Inn, she lifted her head and directed a furrowing brow at him.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice groggy and thick as she pushed herself upright, and not without great effort.

Damon shoved the gearshift into park and cut off the engine, looking sidelong at her. "You didn't think we were just going to go charging in there with no idea what's going on, did you?"

By the way she blinked at him it was obvious that she hadn't really thought about it until now. "I guess not."

Jangling the keys in his hand, he climbed from the car and strolled into the front office, leaving her there to ponder.

"Where are you, Stefan?" she mumbled for herself, peering out the window at a rather enormous black crow that landed on an electricity pole across the lot.

She zoned out, staring at the creepy bird while it perched, cawing at the sky. So when the door she was leant against swung open, she was so startled that she almost tumbled out onto the pavement.

"Here," Damon said, placing a copper key on a tag in her hand as he pulled her out onto her feet. "Room 7, go on right across there."

Frowning, she watched him bend around her and grab their bags from the floor of the backseat just to press them into her arms and slam the door shut. "Where are you going?"

"I've got to figure out where the Malone place is and try to see what I can find on this Skyler chick. It could be that she's involved, could be she's not. It does seem like she was the lure, though, at the very least."

"You're not leaving me here," she argued, trying to muster up the energy to scowl as he herded her onto the walkway that lined the long row of motel doors. "_Damon_."

"Elena," he said clearly, taking her upper arm in his grasp to turn her to him. "It's been almost three weeks since he came down here. There's no sense in being brash before we have any idea what the situation is. Just let me check things out first. I promise you, I'll be back before anything happens."

"But—"

"Just go on in," he told her firmly, unlocking the right door and kicking it open, then swinging her over the threshold. "Take a shower, get some sleep. I'll be back before you wake. We'll figure out where to go from there. Okay?"

Elena stood on the other side of the door, frowning at him as she let the duffels drop onto the floor and kicked them aside. She didn't like the idea. Not one bit. Then again, she was dead on her feet and he was only talking about reconnaissance. What was the danger in that? "Okay," she whispered sullenly, her shoulders falling in defeat.

"Don't worry," he ordered, pressing a hand to the side of her face, touching tousled hair and warm skin. "But if I'm not back within the hour, call Nicholas."

That snapped her eyes wide. "That's it! You're not going anywhere without me!"

"Shh, shh, shh," he quieted, catching her by the arms when she tried to force her way by him and pushing her back into the room. "Calm down. It's just a precaution."

"My ass," she griped, knocking his hands off of her to cross her arms and cock a hip at him. "And why would I call Nicholas of all people? You really trust him?"

Damon gave her a wry smirk, leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb. "Not really. But his witch has taken quite the liking to you, so I'd rely on her influence. Besides, I may not be able to predict what he'll do, but Nic's a good vamp to have at your back in a crisis, just as long as you know where his loyalties lie at that particular moment."

"Great," she drawled, narrowing her bright hazel eyes at him. "I feel so reassured."

"I'm just telling you that if anything should happen, you can trust him to take care of you, if not for anything else than to please Grace."

Elena sobered at that, her brow drawing down again with fear and worry. "Damon . . ."

"Don't," he cut in, righting himself, pulling over a shroud of arrogance. "Nothing is gonna happen. I just wanted you to know."

He started to turn, and she stepped out onto the walkway, catching his arm, stilling him. "_You're_ worried," she said with complete certainty, feeling it from him just as easily as she'd feel it from her wolf. "You think this is serious, _too_ serious to not be afraid."

He looked back at her, quirking one dark eyebrow. "That's gonna get annoying real quick, you know."

"You're not coming back for me," she said, only realizing the truth of it as the words left her mouth. "You're going alone. And you're not sure you're coming back at all."

"I'm allowed to be foolish. As long as I keep it to myself," he countered, pulling his arm from her grasp and shifting to fully face her. "It's the consequences of trying to retain humanity. Don't make it mean more than it does, Elena. You understand?"

The girl gave him a shrewd nod. But she definitely wasn't happy with him. "I'm only staying because I'm more useful here as a reserve if something does happen. _You_ understand, Damon?"

"Smart girl," he murmured, then gave her a little smirk and touched his lips to her forehead before turning and stalking off to the car.

Elena swung around and shut herself hurriedly inside, falling back against the door as she listened to the rev of the Camaro's engine. For a moment, while the purr of his car faded, she thought she couldn't stand it. The pressure threatened to crush her. But as she sunk to the floor, her back to the door, her knees to her chest, she realized that she actually _could_ stand it. Not that that made it any less unbearable.

Stefan was in trouble. Damon was going after him. Damon was wondering if they'd gotten in over their heads. Damon was wondering whether he really could trust Nicholas to take care of Elena—to protect her—to get her out of here by force, which he knew would be needed, should he not come back for her.

Succinctly aware of it all, Elena could only wonder about the man from La Grange. Did he have family? People who would search for him? People who _needed_ to know what had happened to their loved one? Had he really carried cruel intentions? Or was the truth really that she simply freaked out, cost him his life, and all of that talk of bad people carrying corrupted taints was only Damon trying to ease her guilt?

More importantly, she wondered what sort of effect this would have on her and how terrifying a sign it was that she didn't feel worse about it. It made her question her own resolve to make change. She was supposed to be showing Damon the sense of morality she believed he'd had at one time. _Not_ losing hers.

That doubt that had seeped into her was almost as terrifying as sitting here waiting for Damon and Stefan. In fact, she was pretty sure once she quit worrying about this in a few moments, she would soon move on from the—incident?—altogether. How far did that indicate she had fallen? And the ultimate question nagging at the edges of her conscience was this: Was it important enough to take a stand for?

_Maybe_, she thought with a deep sigh. But that was an issue to sort out later. Right now, all she cared about was her boys. Keeping them alive, having them back, and taking them home. Meanwhile, she sat here curled in a ball in this strange motel room as the men she loved were going through only God knew what. And once again, she wasn't sure she could stand it.

_Huh_, she thought with a twinge of bitter irony. _Yeah, right, no danger at all._


	9. The Zombie Queen

**Entry 9: The Zombie Queen**

**Part I  
**

Malone Manor sure was something else, Damon decided with a rueful shake of his head, ignoring the unnerving frisson of revulsion that skittered up his spine. "Leave it to Stefan to wander into a Louisiana Vodou nest," he muttered to himself, toeing the disturbed mounds of soil at his feet.

Standing at the edge of the backwoods thicket looking out across the field of wild grass, he could only come up with one word for the four-story plantation house: Creepy. Every sense he possessed was demanding that he turn tail and get the hell out of dodge. But his brother was in there . . . and he'd already made the decision to not leave without him. _Shit_.

Ignoring the warning bells going off through him, Damon started forward, patting the rear pocket of his jeans to feel the assurance of what he'd procured from a dingy little Santería shop within the city before finding his way out here.

The Camaro was parked aside a gravel road not that far back, though even after cutting through the humid woods to come up at the back of the lot, he doubted he had any sort of element of surprise on his side. From the whispers he'd just heard about the Malone place and the wicked witch that lived within, she most likely already knew he was here.

Swiftly and silently, he crossed to the rundown house, rounding the east end as he scoped out every facet, looking for something useful. He checked the rotting barn and found Stefan's Porsche hidden under a mold-infested car cover, surrounded by shelves lined with rusty tools. Grim-faced, he moved on.

It wasn't until he'd looped around to the rear west corner of the house that he stopped, shut his eyes and took in a deep breath, inhaling the scents riding the air as he listened carefully. But it was no use. The interior was like a sucking abyss, nothing transmitting out, completely devoid of existence. No sound, no sense, no life at all, because everything was encumbered by the black touch of sickness that shrouded the barren grove around him.

He moved warily, coming to the grime-coated bulkhead doors protruding from the ground that gave access to the basement. One sharp jerk at the rusty chains and the padlock securing the handles shattered, coming apart and chinking in pieces at his feet. Forgetting hesitation, Damon took hold of the bulkhead and swung the doors toward him, pulling them out and apart before letting them thump quietly into the muddy weeds.

The cement stairwell he'd exposed went into the depths, delving into the impenetrable darkness below. Even without that strange shroud of the void, he knew he wouldn't have been able to sense anything in there. The bedrock of the dilapidated structure's walls was too thick. But common sense told him that down in that unsettling darkness was where he needed to go. And that fact would have been fine had he not taken a step forward and been refused entry by an invitation-only barrier that threw him backward with a powerful punch of magic.

"Fuck," he hissed, almost inaudibly, swinging around and dragging a frustrated hand through his hair in an attempt to regain his composure. _Looks like I'm doing this the hard way_, he thought with a resigned sigh before striding around to the front of the house and padding confidently up the rotting porch steps, all the while wrapping himself in a nothing-left-to-lose mindset.

The front door was a thick slab of maple; all but the brass handle painted black. The arching stained-glass window at the very top held a kaleidoscope pattern and featured a rustic cross in the center. The whole thing carried an odd prism affect.

Taking a moment to soak in the wavy glass, Damon felt his face go cold. That sickness from inside was slithering out in snakelike tendrils, reaching for him, seeking to seep into his skin, wanting to infect him. It was by far the most disturbing thing the vampire had ever experienced—and _that_ was saying something.

Before he could go searching for the cocky calm that had just run away screaming, he startled as the door swung slowly open and the entryway filled with a young girl in gypsy rags. Dead ribbons for hair cascaded around her body like torn shreds of a cloak. He took note of the quiet mirth in her shiny eyes, the calculated pout of her glossed lips, and then the lace choker that bound her slender throat before he shook himself free of the trance, tilting his head and reaffixing his veneer of suave indifference.

Seeing his appraisal of her, the girl moved into a provocative slouch against the doorjamb, her mouth curving. "Damon Salvatore," she greeted with a pleasant smile and a purring tone of welcome. "We've been waiting for you."

"Wild guess," he quipped, eyes going skyward. "You're Skyler."

"The one and only," she chimed playfully, folding her arms, adapting to his attitude and mirroring it. Her eyes glanced briefly over his shoulder. "You're alone."

"You sound disappointed."

"Not at all," she purred, her smile turning predatory. "Only surprised; I was sure that lupa of yours wouldn't be letting you out of her sight."

Damon went a little rigid at that. "Yes, she wanted to come. But like I told her . . . there's no reason for her to be here. We're just going to have a friendly little chat."

"Oh?" she countered, sculpted brow going high. "Is that so?"

Damon's gaze went over her head, glancing inside before he took one last look at the surroundings behind him. "Are we going to stand in the doorway all day?"

"We could," she murmured in a soft tone, accentuating the melodious quality of her voice. "Or if you'd rather come inside, you're certainly invited to do so."

_Trap_, his mind warned as he eyed her placid mood with resigned suspicion. The challenge was so blatant, he felt a bit taken back. But what was he to do but go with the flow?

Skyler tilted her chin up, swaying the slightest to make a bunch of her roped hair slide over one shoulder, clearing her face. Vivid gray eyes on him went deep down, grasping at his insides and twisting. Yet her smile was nothing but innocently pleasant.

_Damn._ This wasn't going to end well, he realized, shoving aside aversion and stepping over the threshold at her beckoning, very subtly avoiding the brush of their arms that almost happened as he moved past her into the house.

Once within the den of sickness, whatever had been blocking his perception was gone, and Damon hurried to take advantage of that, breathing in deep and reaching out with all of his senses, letting himself come to a sudden stop in the middle of the foyer's ragged area rug. The first thing he noticed was that the girl's heartbeat thumped with an unusual rhythm, her pulse alarmingly thready and the natural hum of her blood coursing through veins disproportionately enticing.

Shaking it off, he moved on, sweeping his awareness outward until it stumbled over his brother—distant, uneven, and oddly faraway. But he'd been right. She was keeping Stefan down below. Only he was too deep to be in the basement, too isolated. There must be levels of bedrock that went farther down into the earth. It was the only thing that made sense.

The reverberating tremor of the front door slamming shut behind him jolted Damon out of his thoughts and had him spinning around in a blur. He found the girl standing closely, too closely, smiling up at him with an innocent brightness that unnerved him all to hell.

"You have no idea how wonderful this is," she whispered, sashaying closer when impulse made him step backward. His eyes darted down to the floor, catching on the shiny metallic glint of her painted toenails, her feet bare and arching as she drew him through one of the archways and into the boarded-up sitting room, almost tripping over an end table as he blindly backed away. "The anticipation was _killing_ me. Not that I let it show. But still, you have no idea how wonderful this is. Finally, I have both Salvatore brothers. My collection is complete."

Damon swallowed hard, blanching at his own fumbling reaction. He couldn't fathom where this was coming from. "Come again?"

"Oh!" she squealed, bouncing where she stood with barely contained excitement, making her look her age. "You're just as I imagined—if not kind of flustered." And then, as if a switch had flipped, it was gone.

With one fluid glide, she closed the remaining distance between them, pushing his spine into the sharp corner of the fireplace as she ran a splayed hand up him, starting from the waistband of his pants, going slowly up the ripples of his torso, over his chest, until she could curve her delicate little hand—with freakishly long fingers made even longer by disturbing acrylic nails—around the base of his throat. Her touch was whispery gentle yet more threatening than anything else could have been.

"We're going to have so much fun . . ." she crooned, syrupy voice chilling him to the core. She dipped upward and in then to rake her mouth over his chin, smooth teeth scraping across painfully sensitive flesh to make him shiver, drawing his eyes shut with a drowsy sense of promise. "By the time I kill you, you'll be begging to do anything I ask, anything in the world to make me happy."

Excruciatingly aware of the infection that now writhed inside of him, Damon forced his eyelids up, keeping the sense of his brother's presence below them as a reminder of why he was here and what he was doing. "See—here's the thing," he murmured on a deep sigh, dusting a hand through her hair as he took her angular face in his grip and slanted away, making her brow furrow into a theatrical pout. "I'm not much for begging. I'm more of a 'take what I want, leave what I don't' kind of guy."

The girl's lips parted at that, words coming up, but before she could say anything at all, his grip turned fierce, jerking her head back at a sharp angle on her neck and using the pressure-hold to force her backward. He lashed with one swift motion and she went flying, crashing into the plywood nailed across one window, splintering the board to pieces and the glass hidden behind it as she broke through to skid into a graceless heap on the rickety porch beyond.

The urge to turn and run down to Stefan rose strong and sudden, but he wasn't so stupid as to let it reign. Instead, he moved forward, blurring across the trail of destruction and vaulting the window to land solidly on the porch amid jagged shards of plywood and glass. But she was gone.

Damon blinked, feeling a haze come over him, thickening everything until he couldn't think or understand, like time just coasted to a stop. And then he heard it, the oath-like mutterings of Creole her melodic voice was spouting from behind him, snapping reality back into focus. Something about 'ungrateful bloodsuckers' and 'just see if she'd let those pretty faces distract her once more' from what he could understand of it.

Moving through instinct, Damon dug a hand into his pocket, curling fingers around the small velvet sachet as he whirled on his heel, blurring up behind the girl while she dusted herself off, cursing vilely. In the blink of an eye, he had upended the pouch, pouring a pile of fire-red powder into his cupped palm, so that when she spun around to deal with him, all he had to do was give a little blow and the Santería dust scattered into her face.

Skyler yelped, stumbling backward as she hunched in on herself, shaking her head. Her eyes screwed tightly shut as she swatted hands at her face, trying to brush away the red dust clinging to her, creating sizzles of burnt smoke that rippled through the air around her like sorcery.

"_Expuli__evictum_," he intoned, uttering the Latin binding with a dangerous vehemence that would have instilled the fear of God in anyone sane.

The girl screamed, knees buckling, hands turning to claws at each of her temples. But Damon abruptly choked on the relief that had only just begun to trickle through him when that wailing sound of pain shifted, changing fluidly into a maniacal cadence of laughter. Her hands dropped, eyes fluttering open, mouth curving coyly as she looked up at him, lilting her brow. A twisted mix of rage and amusement flowed from her, coating his skin in supernatural grime, lodging in his throat with the dread that hit.

"Silly _strigoi_—you think to use my own magic against me?" she taunted, sauntering close until their bodies brushed. "Boy, you are _something_. Sadly for you, you inverted the incantation." The quick contact sent aches of agony stuttering through him, forcing out a surprised cry of pain, and Damon found himself suddenly on his knees before her.

"Stop," he croaked, struggling to keep his body from going into convulsions. The impulse to dart up and curve his fingers into her throat, ripping out vital flesh with one swift movement was riding high. But he couldn't move beneath that scouring agony.

"Well," she said softly, leaning down over him. "I was right about one thing. You're certainly going to be worth the trouble."

With that, Skyler took his jaw in her hand and tipped his face up, allowing his eyes to focus on hers as she neared, chilly breath ghosting across his cheek, making him shudder for a reason that had absolutely nothing to do with pain. No warning came at all, no understanding of what was happening, only one minute there was unexplained agony, and the next he was dying, all of his energy draining from him for her to lap up and wallow in.

Skyler's moan of nirvana filled his ears, and it was the last thing he was even remotely aware of before the darkness swept in and Damon was dead to the world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elena had just stepped out of the shower when she felt the loss.

It had been almost a week since she'd last shaved, and she had been beginning to resemble her animal counterpart. So seeing as she was cooped up in a motel room with nothing to keep her busy, it seemed like the perfect opportunity for a little personal hygiene.

Wiping a hand across the steamed mirror in her rented bathroom as she held a towel around herself, she felt the swell of sudden absence. It hit her out of nowhere like a punch to the gut out of nowhere. Gasping, she doubled over and caught herself on the Formica counter, head hanging over the yellowed sink. Damon's presence so deeply in the core of her being was new, yes, but that didn't make the jolting loss any less disturbing. One moment he was there, pulsing sedately somewhere in the background within her, and the next . . . he wasn't. Not with a casual tapering off, but rather with a violent jerk that stole her breath away.

Tears fell, streaking down her cheeks as her knees buckled and she found herself on the floor, back hitting the cold ceramic wall behind her. Thinking quickly, she staved off the coming panic and screwed her eyes shut, withdrawing deep inside herself to that innate place where Damon had forged a home for himself with her wolf.

"Oh thank God," she exclaimed breathlessly, letting her head fall back against the wall with a relieved thump. The connection was still there, a thread going outward, leading her down the supernatural version of a telephone line. She couldn't feel him anymore at the end of that line between them because there was something there, something blocking her out. It hadn't been severed, though, she realized, going weak with relief before the possibility of his death had a chance to do more than just flicker through her mind.

_We knew this would happen_, sister wolf whispered through the recesses of her mind, bringing her back to alert. _It's up to the reserves now._

"Yeah," Elena drawled, dripping with weary sarcasm, "because it's just that simple."

_It is._

"No," she said, going firm as she clambered back to her feet and stumbled out of the steamy bathroom. "What the hell am I supposed to do?" she asked herself. "They're in trouble. And me, I'm . . ." _What am I?_

_You're the one that's going to take care of this,_ her wolf asserted. _That's what you are, what you're going to do, and you're going to do it now. No more waiting for others to handle it. This is what we're for—we protect our own._

Elena let out a shuddering sigh, falling backward onto the lumpy mattress to one side of the dim room. _But how? _she inwardly exclaimed, feeling a wash of heady helplessness course through her, edging on panic.

The wolf's calm assurance spread through her the next second, scattering apart that fear, easing the ache of frustration and ushering in a levelheaded clarity. _You know what you need to do._

Laying there with the wolf's calm having taken over, Elena found that she really did know what she had to do. So she called in reinforcements.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nicholas's massive Escalade swung across the street, jolting to a halt in front of the Gilbert house. Before the engine had even cut off, Grace was leaping from the passenger side, rounding to the curb, and jogging up the walkway to the front door, which, in turn, popped open before she had the chance to knock.

"We're here for Bonnie," she explained, distractedly corralling her bouncy red hair into a sloppy bun at the base of her skull.

Jeremy stepped to the side, wordlessly beckoning her in. But when Nicholas came up behind her and got stuck at the threshold, the boy's expression closed off. "You can wait outside," he told the strange vampire, then let the door swing to shut as Grace gave her scowling mate an unsympathetic shrug and turned to follow Jeremy into the living room.

"You about ready?" the boy called, making his way to Bonnie's side.

The dark-skinned witch bobbed her head a few times for him, not looking up from where she dug around inside a white wicker beach bag, throwing things around from her perch on the living room's window seat. "I got everything you asked for," she told the redhead when she spotted her out of the corner of her eye. "All except for the wolf's bane . . . and I didn't have any angelica root, but Grams says mullein is the best substitute, so will that work for the banishing sachet, you think?"

Grace shifted from one foot to the other, holding back a put-upon sigh. "That'll do," she said, then shrugged out of her lacy jacket and tied the sleeves around the waist of her broom skirt. "But we better get a move on, if we want to . . ." Her words died as her eyes darted to the boy, noting how anxiously he hovered over the other witch, who was too distracted to notice his gaze jumping impatiently to the bay window every other second. Understanding overtook her, forcing out of her a heavy hiss of breath. "Your sister won't be happy about this."

Jeremy's antsy expression hardened into resolve, the stubbornness she recognized from Elena casting through his eyes. "My sister can shove it for all I care. If Bonnie's going, I'm going."

Upstairs, Alaric was buttoning up his rumpled shirt, socks silent against the hardwood floor as he left the master bedroom behind and made his way downstairs, following the hum of hushed bickering. Jenna was still in the shower, so he wasn't concerned with her overhearing anything she shouldn't. But he was more interested in just what was going on at the moment. It sounded like trouble.

"Come on, Jer. Be reasonable."

"Oh Bonnie, don't you start too." The boy heaved in exasperation. "It's not like she even bothered to let _me_ know she was running off to go dive into some life or death situation. Didn't think that was something her own brother just might want to know! And now ya'll wanna go marching off like the freaking cavalry and leave me here?" He scoffed. "Well, it ain't happening—no way, no how."

"He's right," Bonnie said after a moment of quiet stretched through the house. She set her bag on the seat beside her and came to her feet, arms crossing as she stood at Jeremy's side, presenting a united front. "It's not fair."

Grace's emerald eyes roved from one to the other, and her lips pursed. "Fine," she said with a defeated sigh, holding her hands up in surrender. "Let's just get moving, shall we? No time to waste."

The three turned, leaving the living room behind, only to falter when their gazes landed on Alaric, who stood in the middle of the staircase, looking down at them. He had one elbow leaned against the railing, his expression placid. "So," he began. "Someone want to tell me exactly what sort of life-or-death-situation Elena has found herself in this time?"

Bonnie and Jeremy shared a wide-eyed glance as Grace put her face in her hand and let out a deep groan.

Not even five minutes later, Jenna came down the stairs in a fresh outfit and damp hair, her welcoming smile faltering as the ruckus of her crowded foyer pivoted into a cricket-quiet stillness. "Um . . ." she drawled uncertainly, tilting her head in question at them all.

At Alaric's telling glance, Grace hedged for the front door. "We'll, uh, wait in the car. Come on, children. It's time to go."

Bonnie let the redhead tug her out onto the porch by the arm without a second thought, but Jeremy hesitated in the doorway, his hand on the doorknob as he looked back over one shoulder at his very bewildered aunt. "Uh . . . I'll see you later, Aunt Jenna." And with one last awkward wave, he shut the door behind him.

Jenna's narrowing eyes turned to Alaric as he shifted his feet, moving upward. "Okay, just _what_ is going on here?" she demanded, hands on her hips, meeting him at the first landing of the staircase. "Rick?"

"C'mere," he murmured softly, taking her by the shoulders and dipping at the knee to bring them eye to eye, not noticing the way she brought one hand off her hip to slip it into one of the pockets of her nylon slacks. "Listen to me, Jenna. Elena is in a bit of trouble and Jeremy and I are going to bring her home."

"What kind of trouble?" she asked, suppressing the wash of panic that rose, her face going obediently slack when his pupils dilated. "Alaric? Is she . . ."

"She'll be fine, Jenna. Listen to me, okay?" he implored, surging a gentle ripple of compulsion around her as his brow creased unhappily. "You're not worried. Everyone will be fine. We will all be back soon. Until then, just go on as normal. Will you do that for me?"

Jenna hesitated, just a sliver of a second that passed by where she was frozen, but then she gave him one slow nod of her head. "I will."

"Good," he said, almost to himself, as he let his hands drop from her shoulders and straightened. He took a step down, shifting for the door with his eyes still on hers. His hand fell to the smooth wood of the railing and he faltered, doubt flickering across his handsome face. It pulled him back to her, his arms going around her, pulling her smaller body into his so he could shut his eyes and seep in as much of her soft warmth as possible in that brief moment. He turned his face into her wet hair, breathing the scent of lemon and freesia in deeply. "I want you to know that I love you," he whispered against her neck, his head held down. "Jenna, I love you."

She said nothing, only let him hold her, then watched vacantly as he pulled away, spun, and disappeared out the door, leaving her alone in an empty house.

A long moment went by, but then she blinked, eyes growing shiny as the vacant façade slipped away, replaced with an expression of quiet unhappiness. Pulling her hand from her pocket, Jenna looked down at the delicate blossom of vervain she held within her palm, the lavender-shaded bristles dried and crimped with age. "I love you too."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elena was on her way back to the Comfort Inn, still a block away on foot, when she finally realized that she was being followed.

She'd gone out maybe an hour or so earlier, having no clue where to start, and after tracking down a cluster of unhelpful hoodoo shops the wolf claimed Damon went through, she was nowhere closer to knowing where they were. She didn't need the wolf to tell her that those creepy shopkeepers were lying to her. No one wanted to talk to a hapless outsider.

So by the time she figured out what that nagging little prickle at the nape of her neck had been trying to tell her for the last 2 miles, she was tired, worried, frustrated, and fed up. Not to mention that her feet were sore as hell and the wolf was itching to break free.

Swinging left into a two-way alley, she attuned her attention to the pattern of footfalls tracking her and made like she was crossing through to the next block over, but pulled up short. Pressing her back to the gritty brick of the building, Elena felt a surge of anticipation rise from the wolf, making her shaky. As one, they knew they needed the element of surprise, relying on the heavy stench of urine and sulfur from the cluster of garbage beside her to mask her scent. Nothing could be done about the sudden adrenaline that jolted her heart into overdrive, though, but she was hoping the loud stream of traffic would be enough distraction, no matter how enhanced her pursuer's hearing happened to be.

_Closer . . . closer . . . not yet_, she thought, bending at the knee for traction, fingertips tingling at her sides. _Now_ . . .

Just as a gust of wind blew through her hair, making dark strands dance into the air, a tall man in a dirty duster came ambling around the corner, skidding to a preternaturally abrupt halt just before he would have collided with her outstretched leg. Making up for his quickness, Elena shoved off of the wall, forcing her foot forward from its waiting position as she swirled into a crouch and swiped him across the ankles.

The man swiveled, his arms pinwheeling in a blur of motion as he caught his balance. But she swung closer before he could recover, catching the lapel of his duster and curving a crooked knee up into his ribcage, her force brutal.

A sharp crack resonated through the alley a millisecond before he hit the cement, making Elena cringe even as her wolf felt a shiver of satisfaction. She leapt over him, avoiding a sweeping arm as he lunged for her, and spun, coming down with her heel in his gut. He grunted, air exhaling violently from his lungs, but his hands wrapped around her foot like a vice, tugging her legs out from under her.

The wolf snarled, using her other foot mid-fall to smash into his wrist, giving way the strength of his hold enough for her to twist free of it, spinning and landing with her hands and arches on the cement, then immediately shoving off, whirling fluidly away.

Spine stiffened, legs braced, she stalked a wide circle around him, watching with shining ice in her irises as he gathered himself up, panting and clutching at his fractured ribs, even as they healed beneath his palm.

"Why are you following me?" she demanded to know, her voice unnaturally raspy with the rumbling of the wolf in her chest.

The stranger straightened, biting back a wince, and narrowed his eyes at her, summoning up a forced expression of rage. Instead of answering, he lunged at her again, but she was ready for him, having spotted the telltale tensing a second before he dissolved into a vampiric blur, coming straight for her.

Ducking under and around, she leapt out of his aim in an improvised somersault and rolled to her feet, moving like quicksilver as she came up behind him, latching the inside of one elbow under his chin before he even noticed he'd missed her.

"What. Do. You. Want?" she growled, biting out each word with dangerous precision as he bucked at her hold. She tightened, fingers bruising her own wrist where she held for leverage, and the crush of his airway rippled up her forearm. But the resultant protest from Elena only served to incite her wolf further. "Answer me, vampire. Or I'll sever your vertebra and you won't have the chance," she warned, whispering harshly in his ear as he hissed and snarled, sending legs backward as he tried and repeatedly failed to land a kick to her shins. "_Now_!"

"Okay, okay," he choked, stilling in her punishing grasp. "Just . . . let me go."

Elena's arm flexed, pressing harder into his windpipe. "No, I don't think I will. Not until I know why you're here."

"I . . . I made a mistake. Wrong . . . wrong one . . . just let me go. I don't want anything . . . from you."

With a distrusting sigh, she surged through the wolf's mindless need to finish what she started, shoving it aside as she eased her hold on the strange vampire. Carefully, she went about unwinding taut muscles before she jerked, swinging her arm over his head to slam it against the back of his neck, sending him flying forward. He caught himself on the brick wall and bounced off, landing on his feet facing her several paces away.

Instantly, he retreated into a defensive crouch, lips pulled back baring sharp canines in warning—or desire. It was hard to tell.

Standing with her feet apart for steady balance, Elena's eyes cleared to hazel, looking into the stranger's as his irises calmed from the urgent blood-red they'd been since she first attacked.

They stood that way for a few long moments, facing off, panting for air, judging and evaluating one another. Once she could trust her voice to sound even and composed, she took a small step—half to the side, half forward—cocking her head like a wolf as she eyed him. "Who are you?"

Hesitation flickered over the vampire's face, making her realize how young he was. It wasn't about the way his physical form appeared, because she knew that meant nothing. He _looked_ mid-thirties. But cataloging his body language, the all-too-human look in his eyes that mingled with a confusion she recognized, Elena didn't need the wolf's whispering to know that this was a newborn. Besides, if he'd had any serious age under his belt, she wouldn't have been able to best him just a moment ago. For a vampire, he was still sloppy. _Too sloppy to be anything but a child_, sister wolf decided with a derisive snort that echoed through her mind like the chime of a bell.

At last, the vampire slanted out of his crouch, backing another foot away. "Lee," he said in a breathy voice, jaw clenched tight, wrinkles deepening around his eyes with the conflict she could see swirling through him. "Lee Briggs. I . . . I'm . . . here to kill you."

That raised her eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

The vampire "Lee" visibly thrust his floundering to the side, hardening as he stepped swiftly into the role of predator. "You heard me—_wolf_." He spat it like an acrid taste had coated his tongue. "Your precious Salvatores killed the only woman I ever loved. They need to know how that feels."

He took a menacing step for her and Elena backpedaled, her face going cold, hands furling into fists at her sides as she moved on the balls of her feet, readying for what shined in his scorned gaze. "And just who would that be?" she asked, her voice quiet and steady with steel. "Tell me, Mr. Lee Briggs. Who did my precious Salvatores take from you?"

Yes, she was stalling—but, _damn it_, she didn't want to have to do this. There wasn't any evil in this man's eyes. Only pain, lots of hurt and lots of rage, which was something she understood better than anyone. He was after revenge. She couldn't kill him because of that. She just couldn't. Not here. Not now. Not like this.

"Her name was Lexi," he answered. It sound like some trembling confession whispered through the darkness of a quiet chapel, making her wonder whether he was going to fall to his knees or lunge for her throat. "And she was a good person. She didn't deserve to die." He swung away from the softness her name invoked, going bitter and angry and ready to cause pain. "But that didn't matter, did it?"

A sobering sense of sadness settled inside her, one more layer to press down on the already overwhelming pile of trauma that seemed to make up the very base of her being these days. _Lexi_ . . . he was here for Lexi. _Damn it_.

Her thoughts turned to Damon. Damon: the bastard. Damon: the murderer. Damon: the one who killed Lexi for selfish reasons. Right there was an utterly senseless death, if she'd ever found one. And Stefan: his heartbreak, his anguish, his inability to understand how something so wrong like that could just . . . _happen_. Not just happen, but be done by someone else he loved. Done for absolutely no re—

The next thing she knew, Elena was slamming backwards into brick, the impact rattling through her bones until the wire between her brain and her body seemed to shake loose for a moment or two, leaving her blinking as the world shimmied and twirled before her eyes.

Something sharp pierced her skin, a warm gush of blood spilling down her white peasant top, a tear gouging through Grace's ebony waist cincher as the side of her sternum was sliced open, awakening neurotransmitters to slash pain through all her synapses with one lightning jolt of a reminder.

Moving on instinct alone—because the world was still spinning and flashing bright silver lights at her—Elena lashed out. Her knee came up, catching him in the groin even as her hands clenched into fists across the tense set of his shoulders and dug through fabric into flesh, though it occurred to her that that wasn't something her little oval fingernails should have been capable of. But whatever, because the distraction of unexpected pain was enough to get his ravaging mouth off of her collarbone.

She thrust outward with all the raw power she possessed, hauling the upper half off him backward—the crunch of his spine bending the wrong way like needles in her ears—and brought her leg up, using the back of her shoulders against the brick for friction as she kicked out, catching her heel in his solar plexus and sending him crashing into the opposite building with a clatter of tin garbage cans.

Achy, weary, bleeding, dizzy, and pissed as all hell, she vaulted away from the wall he'd pinned her to, advancing just in time to meet him halfway as he lunged across the alleyway at her. They collided with the dull thwack of mass against unyielding mass, tumbling gracelessly into the dirty cement as each grappled for the upper hand.

With a jab to the larynx and an elbow to first the left temple then the nape of his neck, she rolled them sideways, slamming him into the cement beneath her as she straddled his chest, knees lodged in the sensitive area of his underarms and forearm pinned under his jaw to keep him down. Inwardly cringing through her squeamishness—which the wolf was always a big help with—she reached down between their bodies with her free hand and took a firm hold on his groin, cutting off the vampire's struggles with a shrill gasp.

Eyes wide, he choked when she applied a little pointed pressure to make sure he got the right idea. "Wait, wait, okay!" he breathlessly exclaimed, jerking his hands off of her and holding them up above their heads in a sign of surrender.

Elena leaned upward without relieving any of her holds, arching a sore spine with a languid roll of her creaky neck, her jaw locked and her face cold with determined confidence. The movement made a trickle of blood slip from her chest to fall, hitting his stubbly cheek with an almost inaudible splat. She never looked away from his eyes, feeling the flesh across her collarbone knitting itself up with the speed of a werewolf's healing, not a vampire's. He looked surprised as he watched.

"I don't want to hurt you," she told him in a low voice, if not with a slightly wolflike rasp. "But if you insist on trying to kill me, I will. Don't doubt that for a second."

Lee's distraction dissolved, overtaken by his remembered anger. But he nodded in understanding—petulant, pissed, wrathful understanding.

"Now," she said, clearing her throat to force in a bright and melodious tone, easing up the very slightest on his crotch, but making up for it by pressing harder with her forearm to his throat. "You and me, baby vamp . . . we're going to have to come to some sort of an arrangement."

Lee's eyes narrowed into hateful daggers, making his throat arch up against her arm, choking even as he did so. "I don't make deals w—"

"You'll shut up and listen to me," she snarled, hazel eyes going as white-blue as Antarctic ice. "Or I'll just make this quick and snap your neck." Then she tossed a pointed glance around them, casually adding, "There's got to be some sharp wood around here somewhere that'll do in a pinch."

"_Bitch_," he rasped—the best he could do with what meager air she allowed him. "They killed my soul mate. Don't you get that? You think I care if you kill me? You think I'd rather just walk away and shame Lexi like that? You think I want to live without her anyways? Go ahead and kill me, you fucking blood-whore. If I can't avenge Lexi's death, there's no point!"

Elena's expression went slack, her grip loosening in surprise. He had the perfect chance to turn it around on her. But all he did was collapse back against the cement in a sigh of heartbroken fatigue. Seeing all the fight had fled him, she let her arm drop from his throat and warily raised up, slanting back on her haunches above him. "I met your Lexi once," she admitted, voice too soft for her wolf's liking. "You're right . . . she was a good person. I really liked her."

Something dark and stony flickered through his eyes, laced with pain, as he focused on anything around them but her, jaw tensing. "Most people did."

"She told me about you," Elena whispered. "Not your name, but she told me she'd fallen in love . . . with a human. But she didn't say she turned you. She told me she didn't want this life for the one she loved—he was too good, too bright and beautiful to fit in with her world."

"But I wanted to be with her forever," he argued, shoulders going rigid with an old defiance. "She wouldn't listen. I asked! But she wouldn't do it. And then she went away and she never came back."

"Why did you—"

He gave a sharp shove then, sending her tumbling backward onto her ass in a puddle. She landed with a gasped "ow" and he sat upright, jerking his duster back into proper place. "I didn't want to live forever without Lexi," he told her, still not meeting her eyes. "But I knew that I didn't have a chance to make the ones that killed her pay if I was human. So I went looking, and I found someone willing, and now here I am."

"She wouldn't have wanted this for you."

"It was supposed to make me powerful enough to get her justice. But I can't even take care of one lousy little girl."

"Werewolf," she corrected softly, feeling awkward under the miserably embarrassing failure he was feeling. "And Lexi wouldn't have approved of you killing me. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, I know that!" he snarled, bristling like only a male who knew he was wrong could. "Just shut up!"

"Fine," she sighed, holding up her hands with a rueful shake of her head at him before letting them fall back into her lap. Resolve firmed her, gave her clear and focused purpose, and she looked back up at him with new conviction. "But it's not _them_, you know. Stefan had nothing to do with Lexi's death. He loved her. He would've never hurt her. So whatever you've done to him isn't justice. It's hatred."

"I know that . . . now." Lee gave a rough roll of one shoulder, trying to work out the kinks she'd put in his supposedly impervious body. "But it's not my fault," he groused. "She has him, both of them, and she's not giving them up for nothing."

Shock reverberated through her, making her face slacken. "Wait . . . _she_?" she asked. "I thought you . . ."

"No," he said, shaking his head with a grim set to his mouth. "This isn't about me. All I wanted was an eye for an eye, you for Lexi. But she's not interested in vengeance. She's just sick. I don't even know what she wants."

Elena pivoted forward, landing on her knees in front of him, a dangerous look creeping back into her eyes as the wolf rose. "Who?" she snarled. "Who has them?"

"Skyler," he said, hedging warily away from her, "Lexi's psycho pseudo-daughter." He paused to shudder, then gave another stiff-shouldered shrug, his scowl lessening incrementally by every second that passed between them. "Who, by the way, I'd never even heard of until just recently, and now I can't seem to get free of her."

"Lexi's daughter," Elena murmured, a hand going lightly to her forehead. "Lexi's daughter . . . okay, okay. I want you to go back to the beginning. Tell me just what exactly in hell is going on here."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The quiet cacophony of the woods after nightfall was disturbed when a sudden beeping rose from a digital wristwatch, graciously telling her that the anxiously-awaited midnight hour had arrived. Now it was officially Friday, and she had somewhere important to be.

Taking the crumpled napkin Lee had given her out of her jacket pocket as she came to her feet from where she'd been sitting cross-legged in the dirt with her back propped to a barren poplar tree, she smoothed it out to double-check the directions that had been running through her mind nonstop for the last thirteen hours. But like the last five times she'd done this, the chicken scratch on the napkin was the same. The narrow pathway—er, road—that Lee had directed her to was right here and still no baby vamp in sight.

She was on her own, and the heebie-jeebies were in full bloom. That lousy taxi driver wouldn't even take her this far. He'd kicked her out on the curb when the pavement and street signs ended and the gravel and haunted stretch of boondocks began. So she'd hoofed it from there to here like a good little soldier and been waiting for signs of life for the last thirty minutes. Suffice to say, her faith in Mr. Lee upholding his end of their bargain was beginning to waver.

But with as perfect timing as any, just as she was seriously considering venturing on without his help, a pair of dusty headlights skimmed across her view. Elena backpedaled into the thicket of the woods with one smooth move, tucking herself down into a crouch for the shadows to protect her as the soft patter of the car's engine filled her ears, nearing at a snail's pace.

The tiny Toyota chugged to a stop a few yards away and the headlights shut off, pivoting them back into that impenetrable darkness. "Hello?" Lee's hesitant voice called out as the driver's door popped open, his volume narrowly more than a whisper.

Elena came to her feet, hooking the compact messenger bag she'd brought with her across her chest as her eyes grazed across the vampire through the open door. She took in a steadying breath and ambled out onto the path—_road, damn it_.

"Get in," he said, jerking his head toward the passenger side when he spotted her.

As his door sealed with a gentle click, she slinked around to the other side and climbed in, pulling the bag of necessities into her lap. A gush of A/C hit her in the face, driving a few loose tendrils of hair into the air around her cheeks. The rest of her dark mane was pulled back into a loose topknot, keeping it from her eyes but letting it flow freely around her shoulders the way she was most comfortable with. Even as an athletic girl, she'd never been big on tying it all tight in ponytails or buns. And with a wolf's issues to contend with now too, it tended to give her the feel of being bound.

"You sure about this?" he asked her, white-knuckling the wheel as he started the car down the gravel path. _Road_. "It's not too late. We could still turn around and just go get a beer or something."

Elena shifted in her seat, looking across the darkened car to see the sweat that trickled from his temple. He was breathing too quickly, muscles wound so tense that he was practically quavering. _Damn it_, she thought. _He's gonna flake out on me._ "Keep it together. We'll be in and out. You've got nothing to worry about." _Yeah, right._

"This'll never work." His head was shaking over and over again, eyes straight ahead, hands clenching even tighter in the 10 and 2 position. "She's going to kill us, you know that right? And it's going to be painful. Very, very, very painful—it'll be worse than anything you could imagine, because that's what gets her off. That's what she's all about. We're dead—completely and utterly dead. Holy Hell, _why_ am I doing this?"

Her hand landed on his shoulder and he jumped like a startled cat, wide eyes swinging over to her as if he'd completely forgotten she was here. "Take a breath," she demanded, her voice calm, steady, and cool like ice. "You don't lose it on me and I give you my word, I won't leave without you." Making that promise was a tad unsettling, and she had to bite back the urge to fidget in her seat, but it was done. So she gave him a little smirk to lighten the mood and obstinately ignored the niggling in the back of her awareness that said he could most definitely be right—they could be walking into their deaths. The fear was thick and heady, cloying in her throat and twisting in her chest. But no way was she walking from this without Damon and Stefan, so all that fear and all that dread, it could just go to hell for all she cared. "Have a little faith, Mr. Lee."

Irritation flashed, distracting him from his building panic. "Stop calling me that." And as if she'd hit a trigger, he eased into an angry calm, teeth clenching. "Shit, I shoulda just stuck to the plan and killed you. Now look what you got me into. I'm such a fucking idiot."

Facing away from him as she looked out her window into the pressing shadows, Elena let her lips quirk up. "How far is it?"

"You'll be able to see it in a sec," he replied automatically, his voice sounding steady and empty. He braked and jerked the stick into reverse, maneuvering them into a miraculous U-turn, somehow avoiding butting into any of the tree trunks that caged them. Once the car was facing the way out, he shoved it into park and cut the engine off. "We're on foot from here." He swung out and, when she followed, sent her a wry glance across the roof. "Unless you'd rather go and ring the doorbell."

Elena let her returning gaze linger, studying his face in the darkness until she was satisfied. He seemed to be over his freak-out. Thank God. "After you," she said, letting him lead the way as they cut into the woods to make a wide circle around the clearing that sat at the end of the path—_road_.

Stealthily gliding through the dark, she followed the vampire to the back of the plantation house, putting her back to his to scan the area as he lifted a set of bulkhead doors that gave way to a cement stairwell. Glancing over her shoulder to watch him plunge in, letting those shadows swallow him whole, the anticipation beat at her skull, squeezing a hand around her heart until she had to keep stopping herself from holding her breath. Stefan and Damon were down there. She could feel it. But every molecule of her being was screaming for her to get out—turn tail and run before it was too late. It was enough to almost buckle her knees as she forged resolutely through it, taking the steps two at a time to cast aside that debilitating hesitancy.

She caught up to Lee quickly, keeping close at his back as he brought her down what had to be more than three levels of stairway, delving deeper into the earth, turning the bedrock on either side of her into an almost unbearable suffocation. The vampire had stopped breathing, going utterly silent as he moved. The predator had taken control, ushering him through instincts as ancient as dirt. And ironically enough, it was that knowledge that centered her, an assurance that backed her steadiness instead of shredding it as it probably should have.

Finally—_finally_—the stairwell widened into a circular room, some sort of subcellar of stone and cement, vaulted ceiling above them lessening the pressure of claustrophobia. But the relief was short-lived, because as soon as she left the last stone stair behind, Elena froze. Even through the heavy darkness of the dungeon—yes, she could see now what it really was—her eyes worked too perfectly. _If only_ she'd been blinded by the lack of light the way she should have been.

Lee stopped at her side, looking down at her with expectancy as he waited for her to take it all in. The stone altar from her dreams, the walls lined with manacles and rusty metal with jagged edges and painful points, the drain in the center of the gritty cement floor, then of course . . . "My . . . God."

"We have to hurry," Lee told her, brushing by and crossing to one far wall, where an unaware Stefan hung suspended in the air like some demented mockery of a crucifixion. Something curved and arrow-headed like oversized hooks were going through him at the core of each shoulder, draping him down from the steel beams that crisscrossed along the ceiling. Manacles were latched around his wrists and bolted to the wall behind him, forcing his arms curved upward and back at an excruciating stress-position that made her cringe with just a glance.

The urge to weep died as a stifling thickness in her throat, fading away as the hard touch of iron filled her, coursing through her bloodstream, spreading out from her core until it had her fingertips tingling. Her face went cold, soft and wounded emotion fleeing as the need to _kill_ overtook her. That was the only word for it. This sensation was overwhelming enough to make her quiver and shake, enough to make her useless if she didn't harden it, if she didn't clench her trembling fists at her sides and grind her teeth, eyes beginning to hedge, mingling somewhere between hazel and ice.

There was no time for a meltdown. She knew what she needed to do.

"Be careful," she said in a dead voice when a strangled hiss rose from the back of Stefan's throat as Lee hurried to unhook him.

Hand surreptitiously delving into the messenger bag that hung at her hip, she searched blindly and quietly for what she needed and forced her eyes away from a limp Stefan, roving the rest of the room.

"Damon," she murmured without sound, moving in carefully measured steps toward him the second she spotted his ragged form. He was slumped against the opposite wall as his brother, no hooks, but the same sort of rusty manacles binding both of his wrists. The chains were bolted into the stone of the wall above his head—another stress-position—and his knees were useless, leaving him to hang there, legs splayed crookedly along the floor below him, taking none of the weight off his shoulders.

Other than the grime that coated his clothing, he looked unharmed. But that didn't mean anything. _We heal fast_, she thought, lifting her unoccupied hand up cautiously to his cheek, her touch as gentle as the silky fur of her wolf's pelt. And there must've been something wrong with him, otherwise those chains wouldn't hold, she knew, her brow creasing deeply.

"Damon," she said again, this time using her voice instead of only her lips, her touch turning imploring. She kept one ear on the rustle of Lee as he worked at the fixtures in Stefan, muttering curses at the trouble of it. "Damon, open your eyes."

And he did as she asked, dark as night eyelashes fluttering for a long moment as he worked at it before finally managing to look up at her through a half-slit gaze. His mouth moved in the form of "Elena." But that was the most rationality she got from him.

As she pulled her other hand free of the messenger bag and slid a sleek syringe into the back pocket of her pants, Elena's fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger she had tucked at the small of her back, hidden beneath her top. She brought her hands to hang loosely at her sides when she felt the air shift, Lee turning his attention back to her corner of this private hellhole.

"Not _him_," he told her, his voice rough with the edge of a threat, asking without words if they were going to have a problem. "I told you, I'm not rescuing the monster that killed Lexi. You can take this one," he said, hoisting Stefan to the floor. "You leave _him_ there, right where he belongs."

With a reluctant pang, she dropped her hand away from Damon, taking a step back with a shaky exhale of breath. "Don't worry," she told Lee, her eyes still connected to Damon's. "I gave you my word."

Lee let out a distracted grunt of agreement as he snapped the last of Stefan's restraints, leaving him there sprawled across the floor beneath those swinging hooks. "Help me carry 'em outta here."

With a decided breath, Elena let her gaze drop, swiveling around. And with the silent grace of the true predator she now was, she blurred across the expanse between them. Quicker than he could possibly counter, she had an arm latched around Lee's throat, jerking him back, leveling them out from his taller height difference.

"Which is why I'm _very_ sorry for this," she told him, whispering vehemently in his ear as she stifled his struggles, letting him manage one surprised sound of protest before she jammed the syringe of vervain extract into his neck, depressing the plunger with a quick quirk of her thumb.

_Three, two, one_, she thought, then let him slip from her grasp and crumple to the floor in poisoned unconsciousness. _Damn, that stuff works fast_. Looking down at him with a steeled expression, Elena couldn't help but feel a little dirty. She'd given him her word. She'd promised. Now, she'd broken her end of the bargain. But what choice did she have? She couldn't leave Damon here, no matter what he'd done. Still, she had a feeling that wasn't going to be enough to help her sleep at night.

"Damon?" she called softly, eyes still on the fallen vamp at her feet. She was torn, didn't know which way to turn first. "Damon, I don't know exactly what this is, but you need to answer me."

"Elena . . ." he rasped after a long moment, and she listened to the rattling of chain as he shifted. "I'm fine." But his voice sounded strained and weak, slurring into almost unrecognizable territory. Glancing over her shoulder, she took in his chalky and perspiring face, the way he couldn't manage to keep his eyes open, how his head lolled to the side because he couldn't hold it up, and the overall disastrous look about him, and knew that _fine_ wasn't anywhere near the realm he was in.

Still, it was enough to get her feet to step over Lee's flaccid form and have her kneeling at Stefan's side—who looked about ten times worse off than Damon at the moment.

"Stefan," she said, repeating it clearly as she took his jaw and moved his face toward her, pulling out a packet of donor's blood from her messenger bag and using her teeth to swiftly tear the corner open. She'd been hoping the scent of it hitting the air would be enough to rouse him—which was way she'd taken the opportunity to warm the supply she'd stuffed into the bag before she came out here—and it seemed to be working.

She watched the jerk of his eyes beneath sallow lids and brought the bag closer, tipping it tentatively to his mouth as she pressed the pad of her thumb to his chin and quirked his lips apart. The nape of his neck was propped on one of her knees as she poured it bit by bit into him.

The undiluted fluid hit his tongue and his eyes shot open, bleary and watering, but semiconscious at the very least. One of his stained hands came up, landing on her wrist, rubbing against the smooth flesh there as if looking for something. When recognition flickered through his taut face, she withdrew the packet.

"Elena," he said, focusing on her face as she hovered over him, waves of hair falling over her shoulder to brush his chest. A cringe rippled through her at the rasped and broken sound of his voice, relief and joy overwhelmed by worry and pain and panic. "_No_," he said, shaking his head in delirious denial, summoning strength—or trying to at the very least. "No. You can't be here. Go. Get away."

"Hush," she told him, taking his hand from her wrist and making it cradle the packet of warm blood when she brought it back up to his lips. "Just drink."

A moment went by when his resolve remained rigid, but then she tipped the packet, more blood spilled down his throat, and the fatigue that had ahold of him resurged, mingling with the new rejuvenation of life force that touched his tongue. His eyes fell shut and he latched onto the packet.

Seeing this, she lowered him off of her knee and cautiously rose to her feet, turning away with a jolt of tearing reluctance. She glided across the room to Damon. Before his eyes had even the chance to reopen, one sharp and hurried jerk had the metal around his left wrist shattering, clanking noisily to the ground. She turned, took care of the other one, and threw her arms out and up to catch him as he collapsed against her, nearly hitting the cement beneath them.

"I told you to wait at the hotel," he said with ragged breaths, talking into her shoulder while he fought for strength to return to his knees and failed.

Elena allowed herself a brief second under the relief that swept over her, feeling the trusting press of his powerless hands on her as she held him up. "Right," she retorted wryly after missing a beat, "'cause you're making so much headway without me."

As she lowered him to the floor, his back hitting cement and the strain of struggling to make his body obey him smoothing from his face, he gave her an absent quirk of his lips. "I had the situation under control. In fact, I was just about to start our escape when you came through the door."

A raspy bark of laughter escaped her. "Sure you were."

Elena hooked her grip under his arms and dragged him across the room, grouping. After opening a second packet of donor's blood and setting him up with it, she went back to Stefan and gently hoisted him halfway onto her lap while he finished feeding, draining his packet with an irrational urgency, eyes still shut, attention absent.

Staring, she couldn't seem to recognize him. That was what scared her the most. She knew her Stefan was in there somewhere. But he was so . . . lost.

"Is it helping at all?" she asked Damon, looking up and across at where she'd leaned him against the stone of the altar a few feet away.

He was watching her, his expression soft and weary, the half-gone packet of blood discarded beside him. "A bit," he murmured, his eyes rolling to his delirious brother she cradled against her. "But it's not enough. She's got us trapped under her power. It'll take a hell of a lot more than this before I can even pick my head up under the weight of it. It's sort of like she's drained all my energy and is somehow keeping it from me. _Bitch_."

Elena's lips pressed into a determined line. "Then we'll just have to get it back."

He met her eyes. "There's no time."

"It doesn't matter," she told him solemnly, curling her fingertips into Stefan's chest where her arm laid across him. He'd finished every last drop of the packet she'd given him and was only just beginning to struggle through the fog of delirium that coated him. "She knows I'm here. No matter how quick we are, she won't let us go."

"Elena . . ." he whispered, urging her to look up at him. And when she did, an exchange of understanding passed silently between them. Resolve mingled with grim acceptance.

Then the three of them hobbled their way out to safety to live happily ever after . . . _yeah, right_. It was a nice thought, a flicker of ironic humor that twisted her mouth the tiniest bit for a sliver of a second. But the calm around them stirred before she could make another move, and from the way her heart jolted with awareness, she knew it was too late for an easy escape.

A sharp clap resounded through the subcellar, bouncing off the walls to reverberate around them a moment before the click-clacking of stilettos rose.

Elena lifted her head, following the noise to one far corner of the dungeon to see a silhouette emerge from beyond a set of draping velveteen curtains hung to the wall. How had she missed that there was another entrance? When she first scanned the room there was no way she wouldn't have seen that. Yet . . . there it was opening up for what she could only assume was Skyler Malone.

Not that she'd known what to expect, but a scrawny little girl dolled up in leather straps and satin with hair like Medusa that flowed past her waist was a definite surprise. Skyler was younger than Elena, and that just didn't jibe with what everyone had been telling her. Hell, she was just a child.

Yet as the witch grew closer and the shadows faded from her, Elena could see that there was nothing even remotely childish about the glint in her eyes or the sadistic curve of her smile.

"Well," she said at last, taking them all in with an air of humming pleasure before finally settling her sparkling gaze on Lee, who lay sprawled lifelessly between Stefan and Damon. "Isn't this a sweet surprise?" Her eyes popped up to Elena, and the wolf girl unfroze, chin lifting. "You're quite the traitorous bitch, aren't you?" she chimed, chuckling. "Literally."

"That's downright _hilarious_ coming from the wicked bitch of the bayou," Damon quipped, nearly toppling over to the floor as he tried to turn to see her over the altar at his back.

Skyler rolled her eyes at him, swatting a dainty hand in the air—and Damon slumped, the back of his skull hitting the cement of the floor with a dull thump as he was lost to the world again. "Much better," she announced, dusting her hands with satisfaction.

_Great_, Elena thought. She was trapped in an underground cellar with three knocked-out vampires and an unhinged sociopath looking at her like she wanted to lick her chops and sharpen her nails.

Elena's blood ran cold looking at the sick witch. Even with a stone altar between them, her skin was crawling. But worse than that was the undeniable need that hardened her, the need for _sufferance_. With her hands on Stefan and her peripheral attention on Damon, she knew this wasn't about escaping anymore. She wasn't leaving here until Skyler was dead. And that certainty should have been what frightened her. But she was too enraged to be frightened, too cold with that slow burn of decision.

"Just what is it that you thought you were doing, lupa?" the witch taunted, rounding the altar inch by inch, dragging a jagged acrylic fingernail across the surface of the soiled stone. "Did you really think you would just waltz in here and take what is mine?" She paused, her body stilling as she tossed her head back and laughed. "Many have tried. But every single one is rotting six feet under in my backyard." She started moving again, and narrowed a finger in Elena's direction, her smile sickly. "You will join them."

Letting Stefan go with a distracted gentleness, Elena rose fluidly to her feet and unhooked the messenger bag from her shoulder to drop it beside him. Spine stiffened, shoulders squared, face cold, eyes burning in a steady mixture of hazel and ice, she stepped over him and into the openness of the room. "They're not yours, little girl. They're mine," she mocked, rounding the altar in the other direction, matching the witch's gleeful circling. "And I'm taking them with me."

"_Wrong_!" Skyler snapped, an insolent touch of irritation creeping into her. One foot stamped against the floor, heel incidentally piercing through Damon's laying palm, jerking him back to consciousness. The witch paid no heed, only withdrew her heel and resumed her circling, eyes on Elena. "They used to be yours, yes. But they're my boys now . . . as they should be." Her smile turned smug, arms folding. "My mother would have wanted them for me."

Pushing back the surge of nausea that rippled through her, Elena schooled condescending amusement into her expression, eyebrows going high as she let out a superior cadence of laughter. "You?" she mocked, head tilting, body sliding sideways as she neared, danger exuding every one of her smooth movements. "You wouldn't know what to do with them, little witch."

Just as expected, that struck a chord, and Skyler fumed. "That's it!" she shrilled, slapping her hands down against the altar. "I don't like you," she spat, eyes scouring. "I thought maybe you'd be fun. But you're nothing but a worthless mongrel!"

Elena's muscles tensed in that second before she planned to lunge. But a pair of strong hands latched around her biceps from behind, jerking her backward into a hard chest before her soles even made it off the ground.

A startled yip escaped her as she stiffened, attention alighting on Skyler's satisfied grin. "Worthless werewolf," she drawled. "Meet Alejandro, my guardian. He's another of my boys, actually. But he does splendid work at keeping me safe, don't you, darling?"

Alejandro was an immovable wall that pressed against Elena from behind, his large hands a set of unbreakable bonds around her, keeping her rigid. Waves of her dark hair swung around her shoulders as he bent his head, burying his face in the curve of her throat and inhaling like she was baking bread and he was starved. Panic surged up from her hammering heart to her throat, drowning her in the heady rush of it. Not to mention the despised little thrill that twisted up her spine, making the wolf want to throw her head back and howl.

"Alejandro seems to like you, worthless wolf." Skyler's voice was now melodious as it floated through the haze, tinkling in her ears like chimes, sending her stomach flipping and bile rising up to burn acid in her throat. "Hm . . . now that I think of it, there really is no need for you to die right away. Maybe I'll give you to him. He's been very lonely now that I have my new Salvatore boys taking up my attention."

A low growl rose from the other side of the room, making the witch spin in pleasant surprise. Eyes fluttering, breathing stuttering, Elena watched her bend down to stroke a hand across Damon's clenched jaw, eliciting a shiver from the weakened vampire as he fought against her intangible hold on him.

"Don't worry," she told him, adopting a tone of soothing. "Soon you won't even remember her name."

"_Like hell_," he snarled, going for her throat and collapsing into the cement as she slanted away, giggling.

An instinctive whimper rose from the back of Elena's throat as Alejandro began walking her forward, swaying ever so slightly as she writhed within his hold. She was quicker than any vampire, sure. But they had more strength. It was his greater mass against hers and, unlike Lee, he pinned her to him as easily as he'd hold a mid-tantrum child to his chest. What wasn't helping was the way her wolf reacted to the waves coming off of him. He was so assured, so quietly certain of his dominance that it drove her knees weak. Meanwhile, Elena was inwardly reeling, yelling and shrieking at her wolf to get a goddamn grip and stop swooning. The problem was that she had a feeling it was more than that. It was ancient instinct. And she was having trouble overcoming it.

"Oh Stefan," the witch called in singsong, her eyes flicking to the younger Salvatore, beckoning him into awareness. "Come back, darling. I want you both to see this."

As Stefan roused, turning over with a strangled groan and propping up on his knees and forearms trying to rise, Skyler twirled her way out of the room, ducking under that lazily draping velveteen and hiding herself in the darkness beyond.

As if the witch's exit was a cue they hadn't learned, the room erupted, shrugging off the sedation that had fallen over it with an exhilarated jolt.

Elena landed on her back, bent across the width of the altar, the impact so intense all she could do was blink and shake her head as the muscle-bound vampire advanced.

"Elena!" someone yelled, seconds before Alejandro's fist swung toward her.


	10. The Zombie Queen II

**Entry 10: The Zombie Queen**

**Part II**

"Elena!" someone yelled, seconds before Alejandro's fist swung toward her.

Eyes widening, Elena lurched. She threw her upper body sideways to avoid the attack, catching his elbow when it missed, and jerking him off his balance. She realized belatedly that it wasn't exactly the smartest thing she could have done, because when he tipped, he landed on her, crushing her delicate body to the stone beneath his bulk and knocking the air from her lungs.

Alejandro's hand hit the stone inches from her face and used it to shove off, but her legs wrapped around his torso just in time, ankles latched against his spine as he swung up to his feet and ended up inadvertently hoisting her with him.

One hand gripping the back of his neck to keep herself upright, Elena jerked her arm back crisscross then swung it in a crescent sort of jab that caught him across the cheek, smarting at the bone of her elbow more than anything else.

Trying to shake her off, the vampire swung, dropping to the ground like deadweight to send a shocking ache jolting through her when her back smacked then surged with strength, forcing her to withdraw her legs before he had the chance to crush them into the cement. But that left her on top. Instinct had overtaken, and before he could counter, she'd furled her fingers into a power position and smashed the heel of her palm into his nose, going up and in, and cringing at the feel of mangling cartilage beneath her wolf's strength.

Instead of screaming out like any normal person might, Alejandro remained stoic, using the opportunity of her imbalance when the attack landed to take her wrist in his hand and force it backward, crunching bone as it snapped.

The air left her lungs in a strangled gasp, pain exploding. Then the sudden whip of her neck turning penetrated a split-second later when he backhanded her across the cheek, making her eye lose focus.

Trembling, Elena curled her legs back, arching her spine and gritting her teeth as she slammed the sword of her hand into his throat, severing his larynx. She managed two more melee hits with her good fist before he nailed into the sensitive low center of her abdomen. The blow sent her flying backward.

As she landed across the altar again, crashing the base of her skull against the edge of the stone, she realized what was wrong here. He wasn't responding to pain. He was no different than this stone—immovable, focused, _vacant_.

"Son. Of. A. Bitch," she exclaimed, expelling a jagged gasp of air as her fingers fumbled under her head, coming back wet and sticky with blood. Her body was beginning to go slack on her, sagging against the altar as if she were through. People were calling her name, scuffling about somewhere nearby, but she couldn't understand. It was all muffled and incoherent.

Cradling her broken wrist to her breasts and blinking, she struggled to see past the black and platinum spots spinning through her vision, able to make out just enough to see that Alejandro was on his feet again and coming for her. With a deep sigh, Elena braced herself, pulling her knees up as she planned to use his own momentum against him and flip them over the altar with her feet in his gut.

As one could have guessed, it didn't work out quite so well.

Timing off, she was half a second too soon, and instead of landing the kick, she let him catch her by the ankle and give her a good tug, yanking her down the altar until she was hanging half off and completely dependent on him for leverage. But his hand wrapped around her ankle—as much as it stung—reminded her of something. A flash of relief imploded, and a fresh burst of adrenaline sang through her.

Elena flung her good arm up above her head, clutching at the other edge of the stone and jerking herself back, even as he shattered her tibia with a sharp downswing. But at her cry of pain, Alejandro's lifeless face went savage. Fangs descending, he lunged. She barely—_just_ _barely_—managed to maneuver her wounded arm into his way, catching his worrying teeth in her forearm before they could reach her throat.

Crying out past clenched teeth, Elena lurched upward against his down-pressing desperation, screwing her eyes shut and turning her face away as she forced her thumb into his eye socket. Cringing at the wet pop and the burst of sickening juices that gave against the pad of her thumb, she simultaneously used her unhurt leg to curl up and in, and then kicked out the second he jerked off of her. She caught her heel in his throat, forcing him away.

Ignoring the various points of pain stabbing at her, she hunched upward, arching her spine inward as she pulled her aching ankle up and scrounged under the leg of her pants, ripping off the strap of Velcro tied there and wrapping her good hand around the warm steel of Damon's stolen 9mm.

It had been quite a surprise when she found the compact pistol stuffed in her duffel bag when she went to get dressed. But as she fell back against the stone altar for support and took aim—neck craned as she sighted in the millisecond it took Alejandro to regain his balance—she couldn't help but feel a rush of gratitude.

One flick of her sticky thumb clicked the safety off, even as her forefinger curled over the trigger—_squeezing not pulling_ as her dad had often quipped. Any abrupt action like jerking at the trigger was a sure way to miss the target. And Elena was _not_ about to miss this one.

The silence that had come over her eased enough to hear the sharp thud of his foot against cement when he took his first step toward her, and with an isometric contraction of muscle, she fired.

The bullet took him between the eyes, hitting the cerebral cortex, and down he went. It wasn't permanent, she didn't think. He'd heal. But it sure as hell wouldn't be any time soon. So she let the breath leave her on a long hiss of air, collapsing her lungs. Just like that, the world came back into focus. Well, the subcellar at least.

"You had that the whole time?" Stefan was asking, his voice jagged and soft, his body propped against the wall. His hands still bled from where he'd bit them into the floor trying to reach her.

"No," she said, a numbness overtaking her even as the sarcasm dripped from her lips. "It just appeared out of thin air."

"Why the _hell_ didn't you just shoot him to begin with?" Damon exclaimed through his teeth, trying and failing to push himself up and go to her.

Elena let out a soft rumble of laughter, not from mirth, but as an outlet for the relief that thrummed through her. She slumped against the altar, gun held loosely in her limp hand, head hanging backward off the edge of the stone, turning her vision upside down. "I forgot, okay?"

"_Okay_ she says," Damon grumbled, scuffing against the cement in frustration at his continuing helplessness. "Okay."

"Where is she?" Stefan murmured. That sliver of sanity that had filled his eyes just a moment before was beginning to ebb as his attention went to scouring the shadows.

"Watching," Elena said to the ceiling as she reluctantly started cataloguing all of her aches and pains, grimacing at the internal feel of bone stitching itself back together and blood clotting. "She's probably busy throwing a temper tantrum by now."

"_Psychotic little bitch_," Damon seethed, finagling himself up onto hands and knees with a dizzy shake of his head.

"We have to get out of here," Stefan told them without seeming to actually register their presence. "Elena can't be here. She can't. She has to go. How could you? How _could_ _you_ bring her Elena?"

Damon scowled. "Hey, it's not my fault your girlfriend doesn't listen worth a damn."

"Both of you just calm down," she cut in, voice impatient and edged with returning steel. "We're leaving soon. First . . . I have to take care of something." And she would, just as soon as she caught her breath. But in the meantime, she had to make sure the vamp with the bullet for brains couldn't pop up unexpectedly on them.

Stefan shook his head, groaning and doubling over when he tried to push away from the wall. "Elena—"

"She's talking about killing that oh-so delightful über-bitch you invited into our lives," Damon snapped. "And I wouldn't try to talk her out of it either, because it's the only way you and I are walking out of here, _brother_."

Rationality slithered through Stefan's eyes, awakened by a familiar irritation as he bristled. "I did not _invite_ her into our lives. How was I supposed to know she'd given up her soul and sanity for her power?"

"Gee, Stefan, I don't know. Perhaps—"

Blocking the rise and fall of their voices, Elena gave out a weary sigh and rolled off the edge of the altar, landing on her knees. She then wobbled determinedly to her feet as she held her mending arm tucked into her stomach. "I swear," she muttered to herself, taking the lifeless Alejandro by one arm and dragging him to the closest wall with manacles attached. "The world could go up in flames and you'd both still be too busy bickering to do anything productive."

She was crouched down over Alejandro, cuffing him, when a faint scuffling from beyond the drapes had her whirling back to the altar, grabbing the gun she'd left there, and swinging a sloppy aim at the shadowed opening.

Shifting, breathing deep, Elena put all her weight on her unhurt foot, the pain from the other one making her limp. It seemed that all her energy was focused on healing the worst of her damage first, meaning it was her head and her wrist that was beginning to feel better while everything else still throbbed like crazy.

"Show yourself," she demanded, her voice unwavering as she used her thumb to cock the hammer back on the pistol.

"Put that down, precious," a soft voice returned, soothing and melodious even with a hint of chiding riding the tone. Elena went numb with recognition a split-second before the drapes parted and a middle-aged woman in white entered the room. Her motions were like water, an unbroken grace. Her hair as dark and rich as Elena's flowed around her slim shoulders, two delicate braids drawn back to keep the silky locks from her face—her beautiful face. Even with the faint touch of age, she was beyond beauty. Hazel eyes were warm, shining with a remembered kindness that cut the young girl to the quick.

"My God," Stefan murmured, his voice filtering through the numbness to remind Elena where she was.

Damon's brow furrowed as he glanced between them all. "What?"

"That's her mother."

"Who's?"

"Elena's."

"No!" she said suddenly, more of a bark than anything else, shaking her head with angry denial as her aim wavered. "It's not. My mother is dead," she spat through clenched teeth, her eyes never leaving the woman in white who smiled gently before her.

"Precious," Miranda Gilbert said indulgently, taking a step closer and reaching out a soothing hand. "You don't need that." The warmth of her fingers curling over Elena's as she gripped the gun fiercer than ever before was so real that it sent a weakening quiver through the back of her knees, heart pounding loudly in her ears. "Put it down."

Elena shook her head again, air becoming an issue because she seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. Her forefinger trembled uselessly over the trigger. She couldn't shoot. She couldn't put it down. But she couldn't bring herself to pull away from that familiar warmth either. The hand over hers was so soft, smooth and silky with that homemade honeysuckle lotion her mother always used. She could see it, feel it, even smell it, but deep down she knew it was a lie. "You're not real."

"As real as you are," her mother whispered, urging her aim downward instead of trying to take the gun from her. "I've come to take you home."

Elena stiffened, gun cradled in hand at her side, shoulders trembling, lips pressed tightly together. "I can get home on my own, thank you."

A look of thorough sadness swept over Miranda's face, marring her ethereal beauty. "Please come with me, precious. Let me help you."

"I don't need help," the girl countered rigidly, even as her hands began to shake, knees going warm. She felt the impulse to cry creeping in on her, rising harder. It took every shred of her obstinate resolve to swallow it down. "I don't need your help."

"You do, precious. You do." Miranda took another step, closing the cold ocean of distance between them, filling Elena's nose with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and vanilla extract. The girl felt her eyes fall closed, breathing it in, remembering. "They've broken you," the woman whispered, imploring, insidious. "Can't you see that, precious? Can't you see that you're broken?"

"Elena," Stefan's voice cut through the haze—disrupting, confusing, jarring. Then Damon's followed. "Elena." And together they called to her. "Elena." Torn in opposite directions, she fought to block them all out, everyone that kept tugging her every which way, unrelenting.

A warm teardrop trickled down her cheek, rolling over the soft curve of her jaw, dropping on the back of her mother's hand where it still rested over hers over the gun.

"You're not real," she whispered brokenly, brow furrowing as she struggled to hold onto her strength. But the desire to give in was overwhelming. The desire to accept was too much to bear. How could she stand up under that sort of pressure? Yet, despite everything, she kept trying. "You're _not_ _real_."

Her mother's hand stroked across her damp cheek, cradling her jaw, urging her eyes open. Their gazes locked, and Elena felt the majority of her quivering resolve shatter. "It's what you want most, honey. To be loved. To be safe. Like it was before." Every horrible thing that had happened over the last year came back to the girl with the force of a tidal wave, knocking through the lingering remnants of her determination. "I can give that to you. Just come with me. Please."

The gun slipped from her grip to clatter noisily against the floor. Miranda took her hand from Elena's, leaving the girl feeling suddenly cold and empty as her mother swiped at the pistol with one foot, sending it skittering across the room.

"Now come."

"No," she whimpered, falling as all the strength in her body fled, leaving her without energy, without life, beckoning her to collapse to her knees into the unforgiving cement beneath them. "No." _Not real. Not real. Not real._

Miranda crouched before her, pristine white ripples of her dress pooling around her bare feet. Her soft hand landed on Elena's shaking shoulder. "Don't you want to come home, precious?"

"It's just some stupid illusion," Damon ground out from somewhere faraway. "For Christ's sake—Elena—snap out of it!"

"Elena," Stefan called. "_Listen_, Elena. Just _listen_."

"No," her mother said, catching her chin when the girl tried to look back for them, forcing her eyes to see Miranda's face and only Miranda's. "Remember, precious—they _broke_ you. They're tearing you apart. And they'll keep tearing and taking until there's nothing left of you." That was when the woman offered a hand, holding it out for her daughter to accept. "Come with me. I promise I'll take care of you."

_Listen_, Stefan had said. _Listen_. But listen to whom? She couldn't trust her senses. She couldn't believe. She couldn't figure out what was real and what wasn't. The need to take her mother's hand was overwhelming, distorting everything else until it was a battle to just remember her own name.

_You can't trust your eyes,_ sister wolf whispered through the swirling recesses of her mind, startling the girl. _So trust something else._

Hands biting into cement, Elena screwed her eyes shut and sucked in a long breath, floundering for sanity. She shut out her sense of sight. She quieted her sense of sound. She ignored the overbearing tang of sickness on her tongue. She shut out her olfactory intakes. She closed it all off, wrapping herself in a protective circle, and concentrated.

A faint thrumming rippled through her, and the deafening shield she'd brought up eased the slightest, letting in the very barest of noise. There were three heartbeats in this room, none of them vampire. Hers she could feel hammering against the walls of her chest and the racket of it was almost overbearing. Beyond that, there was her mother's serene thumping. And then there was one more, a slightly off-center pumping somewhere past her and her mother.

But whatever sliver of progress she'd made shattered into oblivion when the warmth of her mother's hand found her cheek and brushed the calloused pad of her thumb across Elena's trembling lips. "Come with me," she whispered again. "They've broken you. I can make it all better."

That was the third time she'd said that. Letting it echo through her mind, Elena felt something innate click back into place. _I may be broken_, she thought. _But I'm far from finished._ And with that, she let her shaking grip on control slip, allowing the wolf to slide partially into the driver's seat, hazel irises streaking with ice behind closed eyelids.

Feeling a smidgen less insane, Elena let her eyes drift open and turned her head to look back, her gaze landing on first Stefan then Damon.

His cerulean stare focused, realizing she was asking something, and he slid his eyes from where Elena crouched, flicking them up and to the left toward a point over the woman in white's shoulder.

With a shuddering breath, she leaned up, slipping a hand behind her back as the other reached out to clasp her mother's. "I'm sorry," she told them, shaking her head and turning her back on them as she let her mother pulled her tentatively to her feet.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, precious. You're saving yourself."

Half wolf, half girl, she wrapped her hand around the thick hilt of her dagger, swinging forward in one smooth movement. A leap of faith and nothing else had her gliding straight through the mirage of her mother, letting it break apart into dissolution as she tugged the dagger free of her waistband and, with a smooth twist of her wrist, thrust it into that off-patterned heart. Quick and dirty, sure, but definitely effective.

It wasn't until the startled gasp of the witch filled her ears that Elena's eyes focused enough to see her face frozen in shock, knowing not till that very moment that she'd just killed the right person.

Her grasp went loose on the hilt and the necromancer slithered to the floor in slow-motion, eyes wide and unseeing as Elena looked down at what remained. Feeling lost and disoriented, she stood frozen until a dry sort of sob escaped her throat, jolting her. Her cheeks warmed with shame. Twisting in her chest was guilt . . . regret . . . despair . . . shock. Most of it was for her mother, and what had just been realized inside of her. But there was a sliver that was for the dead girl lying at her feet. _I will not feel like a monster for this_, she thought, resolve solidifying._ I will not._

"Is it over?" Damon wondered, frowning in bewilderment and exertion as he tried and failed to find the energy to stand.

Elena took in a breath, stifling her shudder. "No." She swiped a quick hand across her cheek, clearing away the remnants of emotion and licking her lips. "Not even close."

Instead of explaining, she crossed the room, ducked into her messenger bag, and took out a small cellular phone. She hit speed dial and brought the cell up, telling the mouthpiece "It's done."

"Elena?" Stefan slurred. His face was slack with fatigue but his eyes were curious.

She glanced his way and held a finger to her lips as she listened for a moment more, nodded her understanding even though she knew they couldn't see her, and snapped the phone shut, shoving it back into her bag. She replaced it in her hand with a thick stick of white chalk and moved back to the fallen witch, sloppily sketching out a huge pentagram around Skyler's lifeless body.

"Uh, Elena," Damon called. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"Creating a mystical cage for the necromancer's soul," she replied distractedly, her attention on the interwoven star within a circle she created as she finished etching out the last of the five points. When the two white lines connected, becoming an undisturbed seal, a gust of netherworld wind rushed through the room, rustling through lank strands of her hair and making them dance away from her face. "That should do it."

Elena rose to her feet, letting the nub of leftover chalk fall to the floor as she stepped away, a ripple of energy creating the slightest shimmer of a barrier along the outside circle of the pentagram. Watching, she felt her expression smooth with surprise. She wasn't a witch; she shouldn't have been able to activate the binding of the pentagram, even this faintest reaction of magic it was giving her.

Thoughtful and wary, she brought a hand up to tentatively dip her palm against the shimmer and felt it give way like invisible rubber. "It won't be very effective until it's legit," she muttered absently. "It needs a witch to affirm it."

Damon shifted, managing to hook an arm over the top of the altar and drag himself upright. "Look, I'm not exactly sure what you're going on about. But the bitch is dead—wonderful work, by the way—can't we just get out of here?"

She swung a dark look his way, including Stefan as well. "And how do you think you're going to get out of here? Not on your own two feet, not until you're free of her."

"She's dead," Stefan said quietly, mostly to himself. "That should be enough."

Elena softened. "But it's not. You can still feel her pulling on you, right?"

The brothers nodded, faces going a little grimmer.

"I don't understand it. I'm just going off of what I was told. And from the looks of the two of you, she was right on the nail."

Damon's head came up with a lilted "Who?"

"Grace."

"Grace?" Stefan echoed, bewildered. "You don't mean Nicholas's Grace, do you?"

"The one and only," she whispered, leaning her back against the wall and sliding to the floor with a grimace and an exhausted sigh. "They've been staying at the boarding house for the last couple of weeks."

Stefan swung his confusion over to his brother, gaining an edge of accusation. "You welcomed them into our home after he tried to kill Elena?"

Dead tired, Damon let his head fall back against the stone of the altar and shrugged. "He apologized."

"It doesn't matter," Elena told them, cutting in at the sight of Stefan's exhausted anger deepening. "Grace is my friend. And Nicholas is . . . the one she loves," she finished lamely. "Besides, Damon's right. He . . . uh . . . apologized."

"Well," Stefan said, sighing. His eyes drifted shut as the tug became more insistent, trying to drag him down into the abyss of nothingness. "He said he was sorry for trying to kill you. That changes everything."

Damon managed to drag his head up, one corner of his mouth quirking tiredly. "Look, the man's got a bit of sarcasm left in him. It's a miracle."

"Bite me."

"No thanks. You're not my type."

Elena let out a soft laugh, wrapping her still-sore arm around her stomach as she curled her legs up toward her, eyes fluttering shut against the dying adrenaline. She was tempted to scold them again, but if they were bantering, they were alive, and that was all she could want for the moment.

The scuffle of feet resounded through the room, and even across the distance she felt the boys stiffen. "It's okay," she murmured, eyes still shut, head still back. "It's just the others . . ."

A moment later, a line of people came bursting out of the first stairway—Grace in the front, Nicholas directly behind her, Bonnie and Jeremy, and then finally Alaric.

"Ugh," Damon groaned, rolling his eyes. "If this is the cavalry, you all need to be shot."

"Nope," Grace countered with a quick-as-lightning grin and a shrug of her shoulders as she sauntered right past him. "We're the cleanup crew."

"Elena," Bonnie said, her voice edging on panic as she rushed to her best friend's side and knelt down to press cool fingertips to the other girl's face. "Are you okay?"

"Fun, fun, fun," she drawled dryly, working for another moment to get her eyes to open. When she could pick her head up, she met Bonnie's worried stare and directed it toward Damon and Stefan. "Help them."

With one last reluctant look at Elena, the dark-skinned witch rose to her feet and crossed to the pentagram, where Grace was setting unlit pillar candles at each of the five points.

"Does someone want to tell us what the hell is going on?" Damon asked, his brow furrowed deeply and his head lolled. "Why does it still feel like I'm dying?"

"Because she's still draining you," Grace told him, her attention on the spell she was stirring. "A necromancer deals in the dead. Killing her isn't enough, not if she doesn't want to die. You're still weakened because she's still siphoning energy from you both. This spell should cast her spirit out of her body and force her to move on, which should break her hold on you."

"You said _should_ a few times in there." Elena frowned. "Does that mean you don't know if it will work?"

The redhead looked up from lighting a black candle then, her bright green eyes zeroing in on the girl. "Well, I've never tried to banish a death-conjuror before, so it's pretty much all theory."

"That's very reassuring," Alaric drawled, casting a wry look about the room as he hovered at the threshold of the stairwell, on guard.

Nic arched his sandy brow from behind Grace's back. "You want fluff or fact, schoolteacher?"

"Just get on with it."

"I am moving as quickly as I can without being careless," she sniped. "Have patience."

"Elena," Jeremy whispered, and she reopened her eyes to find him crouched down beside her, his brow furrowed. "Come on, girl, on your feet. They're the ones getting the life sucked out of them, not you." He held out a hand for her then, the concern in his eyes cutting her to the quick for the umpteenth time tonight.

Images of their mother—hand held out the same way—flashed through her mind, and she had a hellavu time repressing the urge to shiver. She could feel the tears thick in her throat as she let him clasp her hand and pull her to her feet, keeping her there when she swayed worryingly.

With Jeremy at her elbow, she moved across the room, taking up a place by the far wall—Damon, Stefan, and a still-unconscious Lee sprawled on one side of the altar between her and the others, who congregated around the pentagram and the dead witch with the dagger still protruding grotesquely from her chest. Off a ways to Alaric's right was the vampire Alejandro, lying limp in the chains that had him bolted to the wall, having yet to fully heal. If she was going to guess, she'd figure he wasn't going to recover until someone fed him some blood, and probably not until they stopped Skyler from sucking him dry as she was Stefan and Damon in order to keep herself in some sort of limbo-like stasis.

"You okay?" Jeremy whispered, attention offhanded as they both moved to lean back against the wall at once, arms folding across their chests, eyes on the others.

Elena sighed. "As okay as possible, I guess."

"Yeah?"

"It's been one freaky ass night."

He snorted at that. "Tell me about it."

The corner of her mouth curved up, her eyelashes fluttering again. "Some other time."

Silence settled between them then, and they resorted to halfway listening to the hum and hustle of the others as the two white witches—figuratively, anyway—worked at preparing their banishing spell.

A few moments later, Grace moved to stand at the head point of the pentagram, her posture ramrod and her eyes closed in concentration as her hands made peculiar but specific motions at her sides. Bonnie took up an unsure stance between the two lower points, her hands splayed wide and stiff, her eyes attentive to Grace's slackened face.

The air in the cellar seemed to go live-wire, everyone tensing to a frozen sort of attention as they looked on. But the second the redhead began murmuring in a hushed voice, her words blatantly Latin, her pronunciation accented as smoothly as a mother tongue, the stillness shattered.

"What the hell was that?" Damon snapped, grasping at the edge of the altar above his head in an attempt to stay upright.

The rest of them weren't faring much better as a violent tremor rippled through the earth, the ground quaking right out from under their feet, leaving everyone stumbling and lurching for balance.

Grace was knocked backward, where she smashed into the wall before Nic could catch her, slumping into a tangled heap. While Bonnie doubled over as if she'd been pushed from behind, crashing to her knees inside the unfinished circle, catching herself on Skyler's lifeless body and swallowing back a scream because of it.

"What's happening?" Elena shouted, grabbing Jeremy by the shoulder and jerking him back to her before he could kiss a swinging meat hook.

"Earthquake?" someone offered wryly.

"Don't be stupid!" another someone shot back, not at all amused.

"She still has power! A _lot_ of it," Grace told them, her voice loud but steady as Nicholas pulled her to her feet, his thumbs going to her eyelids as he checked her pupils, making sure she was concussion-free before he let her shove past him and back to the head of the pentagram. "And she's obviously not happy about this."

Scrambling crablike out of the circle, Bonnie's wide eyes shot up to the other witch. "How do we make it stop?"

"I have to seal the circle, otherwise it's useless."

"And that'll stop this?" Alaric shouted over to her while just barely keeping on his feet when the earth lurched again. Cement cracked between their feet, like it was trying to open up and swallow them whole.

"Not exactly," Grace answered at last, her hands reverting to those strange motions again. "If she can keep us from doing the ritual, she can gather enough power to revive herself."

"Then get to it already!" Elena shoved off from the wall, arms wide to keep her balance against the growing quakes. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Jeremy fall back against the wall, narrowly missing a falling instrument of rusty metalwork. She hopped over a broken seam in the cement that tried to catch her foot and trip her, searching for somewhere safe to cower as the redhead shook her head.

"It's not that simple," she told them all, her grim gaze going to Elena. "Once we start, this cannot be disrupted."

The girl stilled. "What if it is?" she asked, and then ducked to the left to keep from getting hit by an unlatched manacle that swung up from the wall.

Grace's grim expression turned grimmer, even as she stumbled toward the circle and Nicholas snatched her by the waist, hoisting her off her feet as he yanked her back out of it. "That'd be bad," she said, finally on her own feet again. "_Very_ bad."

Hand pressed to the nearest wall to keep steady, Elena turned back to the witch, giving her a resolved look. "Then it won't be interrupted."

But a heartbeat later, she felt a prickle of awareness rush up her spine, and her head jerked around, eyes darting to her brother, who was still wavering right where she'd left him. Her gaze flicked to the stone wall behind him, zeroing in on the way it trembled, like ripples of water spreading out, and her heart jolted with panic.

"Jeremy!" she yelled, already in motion as she lunged, grabbing him and whirling them bodily around and away a mere millisecond before the wall imploded, pelting bedrock every which way. With her back to the implosion and her arms hooked around her brother's shoulders—shoving him downward in instinctual deference to their contrasting heights—shielding him, she held on for dear life. And somehow, she managed to miraculously keep her balance against the assault of rock and wind that wanted to blow her over.

The others dove for cover a split-second too late, but it didn't matter, because no one but Elena and Jeremy were close enough to get hit.

A cloud of dust and dirt, carrying jagged pebbles, descended over them. But it was all feathers to Elena, because the only thing she could feel was the thousands of tiny wounds along her back where flying bedrock had imbedded itself, making for an unbearable myriad of pain.

As the rain of dust and rock settled, Jeremy lifted his face from his sister's shoulder, pulling back far enough to look at her, his brow furrowing slowly in benumbed confusion. "What . . ."

"Jer," she said, her voice coming out weaker than a whisper. "Catch me."

"Huh?"

"Catch me," she repeated, just as her knees gave out and she slithered downward. Jumping to get his arms around her in time, Jeremy's eyes widened. "Thanks."

"Elena?" he asked, jostling her for her attention as he kept her up, her spine arching over the bind of his arm, her head falling limply backward. "Elena!"

"I'm fine," she murmured, half delirious with the pain. He lowered her to the ground, their knees hitting cement together, and that was when he got a look over her shoulder, seeing the length of her backside mottled with jagged shards of rock.

"Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed. "Somebody help!"

"No, no, no," she murmured, shaking her head and swatting a weak hand at him as she leaned forward, one palm pressing to the cement to keep her from going splat. "I'm fine. I promise. Just . . . dust me off, will ya?"

Jeremy's mouth worked up and down at her, eyes blinking, brow a little too high. "Dust you . . . off . . . Elena!"

"Uh, guys?" Alaric called, coming to stand parallel to the kneeling duo. "We may have another problem."

"Ya think?" Jeremy yelled, whirling his head toward the man, only to find that Alaric's attention wasn't on his sister.

Following his blank gaze, the boy looked out past the ruins of the imploded wall, finding a deep incline of mud and soil that looked to lead up into the backyard of the plantation. But that wasn't what caught his eye and made him gulp. No, that had been the horde of decaying corpses—all in varying states of decomposition—that were trudging sluggishly down the incline toward them.

It wasn't until he actually saw them that the stench of it hit him, clogging up his throat, stinging his eyes, and burning the inside of his nostrils, while he struggled to keep down the upchuck that wanted to spew.

Nicholas came up behind the schoolteacher, his gaze darting over the other's shoulder and grazing across the width of the impromptu opening. "Oh . . . _shit_."

"Are those what I think they are?" Jeremy blanched, plugging up his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie while his other arm wrapped gingerly around his sister's shoulders and tried to herd her up to her feet. "'Cause they look an awful lot like zombies."

From across the room, Damon let out an aggravated huff. "You have _got_ to be kidding me," he drawled, covering his mouth and nose with one hand and gripping the altar's ledge with his other. His eyes went to his brother, and Stefan just shook his head, shrugging helplessly.

"Guys," Bonnie shouted, back in her place at the bottom of the pentagram. "Back up."

The others all glanced over their shoulders at her, backing away from the ruins of the wall and the muddy incline just in time as the dark-skinned witch threw up a hand.

A ripple of magic washed outward from her, flowing over them all on its way to the wall as she invoked the very same barrier of protection she and Jeremy had learned together that last full moon.

The stretch of domed energy held a faint glimmer of light within it, glinting off of the pressing shadows around it.

"It won't hold long," she told them, already looking fatigued. Her eyes darted to Grace, but the redhead was still intensely focused on her binding circle. She hadn't even started on the actual banishment yet, and Bonnie just didn't feel right about asking her for help.

"Come on—Jeremy," Elena was saying, barely able to keep on her feet as she swayed, blinking through the dizziness. "Like, _now_."

Her brother's wide eyes went from her pained face to her rock-riddled and bleeding back, his mouth falling open. "I . . . I . . ." he stammered, floundering.

"_Ugh_," she groaned and rolled her eyes, using her hands on his balancing arm to shift herself until her back was pointed to Nicholas and Alaric, who weren't paying attention, too busy gaping grimly at the oncoming parade of reanimated dead. "One of you," she snapped, her voice taking on a strong hint of her wolf's growl. "Get as much rock out of me as you can, please!" It wouldn't begin to heal until she got the wounds clear and all they could do was stand around staring like idiots. _No, like zombie chow_, she thought with a quirk of inappropriate bemusement.

Shaken from her thoughts a moment later, Elena let her forehead fall to her brother's shoulder and gnashed her teeth with a sudden hiss as Nicholas started swiping his hands across her back, starting at the top and heading down until he was dusting off her rear and the back of her thighs, making the wolf rumble lowly in warning.

"Don't go getting prickly, lupa." He smirked, giving her ass an extra swipe for the fun of it. "I'm only doing as you asked."

"Ahem." Alaric cleared his throat, still standing back to back with Nicholas as the two vampires multitasked. "People, they're getting pretty damn close."

"They haven't hit the shield yet," Elena murmured, lifting her head from Jeremy and giving her shoulders an experimental roll, letting out a hiss as the searing pain surged up again. But at least now it was beginning to ebb.

"And when they do?"

"When they do, the strain will be on Bonnie." Jeremy let go of his sister's arm, glancing behind him at the two witches and their pentagram. "I heard the backlash last time she did this was brutal."

Upper lip stiff, Bonnie spread her arms wide, following Grace's movements as she played the backup. "I can take it. But there's too many. If they're persistent, I don't think it will hold up."

Stefan blinked, fighting back the darkness. "Solutions?" he urged, voice slurring with exhaustion.

"Run like hell?"

"Not exactly an option yet, not till little miss witchy over there gets this thing done."

"So we just sit on our hands and wait?"

"We wait," Elena told them, taking Jeremy by the shoulder and manhandling him across the room. "But keep your damn hands ready." She deposited her brother beside Bonnie and hit him with her sternest stare. "Guard her, you hear me?"

"Gotcha," he said, nodding. But he knew she just wanted him out of the way of danger—as much as one could be in this room at the moment.

Taking in a steadying breath, Elena turned back. As she moved by, she hesitated next to Damon, seeing him struggling with renewed efforts to get to his feet. He was trying to use the altar to hoist himself up, but it wasn't working because his arms had no strength left in them and his legs were still as useless as ever. At least Stefan could accept the fact that it was pointless for now.

With a hand on his shoulder, she gave a firm push and forced him back to the floor. "Stay down." And when he scowled up at her, she leveled him with an even look and lowered her voice. "Stay. Down."

Without waiting to watch him slump in sullen defeat, Elena moved on, going up to stand between Nicholas and Alaric where they hovered anxiously at the edge of Bonnie's shimmering barrier, creating a front line.

Resolve solidified, face cold, she settled her eyes on the mass of dragging carcasses coming for them, inch by excruciating inch, shoving and jamming into one another in a mindless shuffle. There had to be at least thirty or so, and that was only what she could see so far. "How do we keep them down?"

Nicholas shifted his weight from one foot to the other, ready for violence. "Sever the spinal column," he said. "Cut off the base of the nervous system and the limbs won't work. They'll be useless."

Licking her lips, Elena looked over her shoulder at Grace and Bonnie. The redhead was preoccupied murmuring avidly in Latin, casting ripples of energy to swirl around the circumference of the circle she'd sealed. While trickles of sweat dripped from Bonnie's temple, her attention fixed on the witch across from her. It was taking enough out of her to just keep the barrier up. Elena didn't want to see what would happen to her once those corpses started beating on it.

Shifting back to face the ever advancing horde, Elena's muscles coiled. "Shall we?" she quipped in a dry voice, not waiting for a response before she darted forward, slipping fluently through the shimmering barrier and zigzagging into the horde.

Quicker than lightning, she came up behind one of the trudging carcasses, wrinkling her nose up at the rotten stench and trying to not notice the way leathery flesh oozed off of bone in wet clumps. Instinct overtaken, not giving herself time for thought, she thrust out her hands to either side of the . . . head . . . and wrenched, twisting its neck beyond repair with one swift motion and watching it go down, quick and easy.

"I told you so," Nicholas chimed, his voice all singsong and such, still on the safe side of the barrier with Alaric.

"Goody for you," she threw back at him with a quirk of her head, darting out of reach when a soggy hand landed on her back. Twisting and twirling, a disgusted look on her face as she danced through the mob of rotting flesh and distended limbs, trying to keep her nonexistent lunch down. The only way this could possibly get any more putrid would be if she started puking. Besides, it'd be kinda hard to go around severing spinal columns every three seconds if she was busy heaving her guts out. And why her thoughts were rambling on about barfing as she worked her way through the first dozen of corpses wasn't really something she had time to figure out.

When the thirteenth went down like a sack of potatoes, Alaric and Nicholas shared a wistful look before they plunged into the fray, circling either end of the outskirts as the quicksilver wolf weaved her way through the center.

They moved efficiently and swiftly in an unchoreographed dance of violence, but the more they put down, the more there were that kept coming, and as Grace's incantation grew louder and fiercer, the ground began to shake again, even more vigorously than before.

As if the gods were angered by their ruckus, the dense layer of clouds that had hovered above suddenly opened up and began pouring down.

"Grace, love," Nicholas yelled over the noise of the unnatural earthquake and the legion of corpses, his tone patronizingly sweet. "It doesn't appear to be working!"

"She's cast a protection ward!" the witch shouted back, losing her balance and letting the wall catch her before shoving immediately off and resuming her position at the main point of the pentagram. "It's keeping our ritual from reaching her soul!"

Elena twirled under a pair of lunging arms, letting the corpse go stumbling into two others while she shifted, coming up behind another and wrenching at its neck. The decayed muscle and brittle bone gave way with surprising ease, and she ended up with a body at her feet and a rotted head cradled between her hands.

"_Ahhh_!" she shrieked, tossing the head away with another grimace as the willies shuddered through her. _Ah,_ _God, that's just . . . nasty._ "How do you break it?" she yelled inside, twisting and slanting to avoid all the grasping hands that swarmed her, biting down on the creepy-crawlies plaguing her nerve endings.

"There should be a talisman!" Grace shouted back. "She'd need it to be the focus of the ward! Destroy it and you destroy the power source."

Elena stilled, gaze darting around her at the varying chaos, finally hesitating when her eyes locked with Nic's. "Go!" he barked out, grabbing a corpse by the scruff and yanking it off of Alaric before it could get its toothless mouth latched onto him.

With one more glance of reluctance, Elena shook herself free of the horde and broke into a run, blurring fluidly through the subcellar, past the velveteen drapes, and up the strange spiral staircase that brought her out into a lightless kitchen.

Racing through rooms, she finally skidded to a choppy halt in what seemed to be the study as she nearly ran smack-dab into a rounded table. A black tablecloth was thrown over it, the clutter across the surface ranging from deformed taper candles—some of which still flickered with waiting flames—to cruddy gemstones and chintzy amulets. A mirror sat flat in the very center of all of this, its glass darkened and cloudy. Most of the artifacts she had seen earlier in the day at some of those hoodoo shops. But she didn't need to know what they were for to know that this was obviously the necromancer's altar.

But Grace had said "talisman." She hadn't said anything about what that focusing object would be. It could be any one of the knickknacks across the altar. _How the hell am I supposed to know which one it is?_

"Screw it," she said after a moment of hesitation, and then swung around and grabbed a pewter poker from the stand by the small fireplace, whirling as she raised it over her head only to bring it down with enough force to splinter the redwood table asunder.

Several more high-powered swings later, the entire altar was smashed into bits and pieces, not a single item on it lingering even close to intact. Candles had been knocked over—ones that weren't crushed were rolling away across the hardwood floor. Flames had caught on the tablecloth, sending everything up in smoke with a sharp but small explosion that sent her teetering backwards, arms over her face.

Exhilarated and thrumming with adrenaline, Elena spun on her heel, still gripping the fireplace poker in one hand as she raced back to the kitchen. But before she could even reach the first step of the staircase, the sounds rising from down below brought her up short. _Damn it_, she thought, hissing as she spun away. It hadn't worked.

Whatever the talisman was, it hadn't been on that altar.

_Damn. Damn. Damn._

What the hell? It should've been there.

_It's a protection ward . . . a last resort salvation, _she thought, breathlessly bouncing on the balls of her feet with the urgency that rode her hard. _Last resort . . . last resort . . . where would I keep it?_ But the thought hadn't even the chance to complete before it hit her and she was bounding off through the house, racing up another flight of stairs and bursting into the master bedroom.

She tossed the room inch by inch, starting with the bureau. Finally, _finally_, she jerked the bedding off of the lumpy old mattress and hidden under one of the pillows she found a delicate twine of rope, each end singed. "Gotcha," she hissed victoriously, twirling toward the door.

She was on her way to throw it into the growing fire downstairs when something caught her eye.

Hesitating midway down the staircase, Elena let the poker clatter away as she took the twine between her hands and unraveled it, finding a fragile rose-shaped crystal tucked deep within the core of the rope. Inside the glass, she could see a tiny roll of parchment. And she knew—the certainty of it a higher rush than any violence going on around her—that this was it.

In one breath, she pivoted onto her heel, swung back, and pitched the crystal rose across the darkened hallway, shattering it against the peeling floral wallpaper. The next second, she scooped up the tiny roll of parchment the glass had protected and furled her fist around it, bounding down the stairs and back into the study, tossing the roll into the fire as orange flames climbed the walls, raging to escape.

Eyes glowing as she watched the ward turn to ash, Elena covered her mouth and nose with one hand to keep the smoke out, and a sliver of her tension eased the next second when the entire house went still, all the volatile spasms dying with an abruptness that snatched her breath away. She backed warily from the fire, feeling that sense of dread that had been twisting up her insides for hours dissolve into a quiet calm.

By the time she returned to the subcellar, all those zombies—God, she couldn't even think it without wanting to roll her eyes—were nothing but piles upon piles of lifeless carcasses littering that slope of earth. Stepping wearily into the room, she found that Grace had lost consciousness, dangling in Nicholas's arms. Bonnie leaned heavily on Jeremy, blood trickling in thick streams from her nose. And Alaric was only just helping Damon to his feet.

"It's done?" she asked, her soft voice jarring against the new hush.

All of their unanimous nods were interrupted by an explosion of glass that resonated from upstairs. Every head but Elena's looked up.

"Time to go," she told them, snatching up her messenger bag and pulling out another packet of blood.

"What's going on?" Alaric asked her, the crease of his brow coming forth in the gravelly tone of his voice.

"I sort of . . . set the house on fire," she informed them all with an uncaring shrug of her shoulders, ambling over to the healing Alejandro.

"Perfect," Nicholas drawled, gathering his Grace up and moving swiftly through to the stairwell that would lead him up to the bulkhead doors and the freedom of the sky.

After ripping one of the corners of the packet open, Elena gave the big vampire's chin a careless jerk and dumped the blood over his face—not all that worried about how much actually got into his mouth and down his throat.

The only reason she was doing this at all was because she was pretty sure he'd been in the same position as Stefan and Damon, only further down that road, and she didn't want the guilt of letting him burn here on her conscience.

A moment went by as she did nothing but watch the way his body pushed out the crushed bullet, making it clatter to the floor by his ear as his skin knitted itself together. A second later, Alejandro's eyes flung wide open and he surged upright, making her take a sharp leap backward.

Letting that first jolt ease, the vampire sat placidly in his chains, blinking at them all, looking for all the world like he had no freaking clue what was going on. And feeling trusting, Elena took the manacles in her hands to give them a good crunch, setting an unresponsive Alejandro free, before she took several disinterested steps away from him, moving to crouch beside Stefan, who laid sprawled out on the floor, unconscious again.

"Why isn't he healed?"

"It was more extensive for him," Damon guessed, removing himself from Alaric's aid and replacing it with the stone altar. He swayed unsteadily, features clouded with weariness, but it was a hundred times better than it had been before she'd left.

Alaric sidled up to her as she hooked one of Stefan's limp arms around her shoulders and hoisted his deadweight up with a grunt of exhaustion. "He just needs rest," the schoolteacher reassured, his eyes soft on hers as he took Stefan's other side and they began moving him toward the stairwell, following behind Nicholas and Jeremy with their worn-out witches.

Elena gave one brief glance over her shoulder to see Alejandro begin stumbling his way up the body-scattered incline of mud and out into the open air. But halfway up the stone steps, she stopped.

Ignoring Alaric's quizzical look, the girl shifted, reaching out a hand behind her to take hold of Damon and urge him closer, slipping out from under Stefan's weight and letting Damon replace her. Each with an arm of Stefan's around the nape of their necks, the two vampires turned to watch her rush back into the room. And when she returned, she was shuffling up to them, half carrying/half dragging a drugged Lee.

At their matching wry looks, she shrugged. "I promised I wouldn't leave without him." And that was that.

Once all the stragglers had been accounted for, the gang gathered in the front yard, Nicholas's Escalade at their backs, all turning to watch the dilapidated, ivy-stifled, withering plantation house be swallowed by flames rising higher into the starry sky.

Rain poured down in heavy gallons, drenching the weary onlookers and sifting through the uprooted earth that now lay riddled with rot.

"How many bodies do you think are in there?" Elena asked into the silence of their gathering, leaning her side into Damon as he hunched tiredly beside her. Stefan hung limp between him and Alaric on the other side.

At the sound of her voice, though, he turned and looked down at her with an unusually solemn expression. "Dozens, maybe a hundred."

"How is that possible?"

"I don't know."

They all stood that way for a few moments longer before breaking apart. Damon moved around to the back of the burning manor, dragging Alaric with him to recover both the Camaro and the Porsche that were tucked away within the barn.

Once all three cars were lined up around front, Elena rolled Lee into the trunk of Damon's Camaro, looking up at the others as she slammed it closed. "He's got a car blocking the pathway—I mean the road."

"Nah," Nicholas said, readjusting a moaning Grace in his arms so that her head would rest comfortably against his chest. "We shoved that piece of scrap metal into the ditch already to get through."

Sighing, she shrugged that off and held up the keys, jangling them for the taking.

Alaric gave her a disinterested nod, catching the Camaro's keys one-handed when she tossed them across the roof of the car at him. He slipped in and started it up without complaint or commentary.

As all the others piled into Nicholas's SUV, Elena made her way over to Stefan's Porsche, glancing in at him sprawled across the backseat before she crouched down by the driver's window to watch Damon duck under the dash and hotwire the engine to life.

"How come you found the keys to yours but not his?" she asked idly, resting her cheek on the windowsill and letting her eyes flutter shut.

Damon glanced sidelong up at her as he worked, tracking down the right pair of wires and wiggling back their casing to brush contact and catch a spark. "I keep a spare set under the driver's floor mat. He doesn't."

"Oh." The next second, Stefan's Porsche revved to life, and Elena trudged—thoroughly zombified—around to the passenger side, collapsing into the soft leather of the seat.

Thinking of the house in flames, Elena couldn't help but feel as if it were somehow a fitting end for the necromancer, burning to ash as her unholy home came down around her remains, as macabre as that sounded. And as she wrapped her arms around herself and leaned her head back, their caravan of misfits eased into motion, leaving this place behind as Malone Manor went up in flames, lighting up the night.


	11. Soul Asylum

**Entry 11: Soul Asylum**

The rain ebbed as a dusky sort of predawn began to lighten the sky. It was roughly 3 A.M. when Elena trudged inside the front office of the Comfort Inn and began tapping her palm down upon the little metal bell that sat on the chest-high partition at an annoyingly incessant tempo. The erratic hum of sirens from the passing fire engine on the street created an oddly fitting background noise.

She couldn't believe it had only been three hours since she left to go meet Lee on that overridden path—er, road. _Oh, to hell with it._ In any case, it felt like she'd been out for days and she couldn't even say how good it was to see this crummy little hovel again.

The lights in the lobby were shut off, leaving her in a darkness that was easy on the eyes, but there was a sliver of yellow illuminating the threshold of the closed door beyond the partition, and she could hear the tinny murmur of a TV set in the backroom, so she knew the prickly night manager she'd met before leaving earlier was still here.

The trick was getting him to come out.

"Hello?" she rumbled in a voice that was hoarse and a tone that was thick with that peculiar delirium that came when someone survived past the point of exhaustion. When nothing happened, she started up again on the bell and slanted herself over the partition, calling again, "He-e-e-l-l-lo?"

"I coming, I coming . . . quit the gods-awful racket before I shove that cursed bell up your—Oh, it's you." And he didn't seem any happier about it.

"Yep—I'm back," she drawled, leaning an elbow on the partition and plopping her head in her hand as the frumpy old night manager jerked the bell from her reach and threw it into the tiny trashcan behind him.

The curling tips of her drenched hair fell forward to splay across the ivory Formica. Her clothes made squishy sopping noises every time she shifted even the slightest. And her shoes were heavy as could be. It just couldn't get any worse. But she was alive. Stefan was alive. Damon was alive. No one who wasn't supposed to had died. All in all, it was a good day. And _that_ wasn't pathetic—no, not at all.

"Whaddya want, you little wretch?" he practically growled. "Coming in here at all hours of the gods-forsaken night, you should be shot."

Elena couldn't even muster up the energy for a roll of her eyes. "Give it your best," she muttered absently, eyelids dropping. "But in the meantime, I need two adjoining rooms."

"Ain't got no adjoining rooms. We just got rooms."

"Then two of those."

The night manager's eyes squinted at her from over the top of his bifocals. "What the hell's wrong with the one you got now?"

"Nothing," she said, chin slipping to fall into her palm. "I just need two more, and another day on that one while I'm at it."

"I don't want no funny business in my place," he warned, finger zeroing in on her. "You hooligans think you can be traipsing in and out of here all hours of the dark with your full-moon-worshipping doodads and your coolers of blood and your freaky ways. If I gotta have those police pigs in here closing down my rooms again—"

"I don't need a lecture," she cut in quietly, her tone hardening as she straightened up off of his partition. "Just book the rooms and give me the keys."

The old man gave a halfhearted harrumph, his wiry shoulders slumping. "You got enough cash on you, missy?"

"You have a card on file." Or so Damon had assured her. "Use it."

And he did, but not without some not-so-hushed grumbling as he moved his creaky body over to the fossil of a computer and hammered out the procedure one finger at a time. Then it seemed to take him another three minutes just to track down the right keys that hung on the board of hooks against one far wall.

"Here," he barked, gruffly shoving the set of door keys at her with a petulant scowl before he turned on his heel and wobbled back into the other room. His private door slammed shut as she made her way out the front, coming onto the walkway and keeping under the overhang that shielded her from the downpour.

Elena made her way to one far corner of the L-shaped motel, folding her arms across herself as she passed by the Escalade and triggered the rest of the gang clambering out into the rain. Alaric had left the Camaro and was already making his way toward her as the others darted onto the walkway. The Porsche was parked beside it, but Damon had hauled his brother into their room before she'd gone to the office for more.

"They're down that way," she said, pointing with her chin to the right direction as she slapped one spare key into Nicholas's palm.

"Thanks," he mumbled, shuffling off like the walking dead, taking an only halfway conscious Grace with him as she hung off of his broad shoulder.

Elena handed the remaining key over to Jeremy. "Go open it up for me, will you? I'll be right there."

"Sure," he said, frowning curiously at her. "Come on, Bon. Let's go."

Once they past, she turned to look up at Alaric, who was looming over her with a quietly expectant expression. "Can you help me with Lee?"

His brow creased. "Who's Lee?"

"The guy in the trunk," she murmured, brushing by him on her way to the waiting Camaro. "He's gonna be pretty unhappy when he wakes up. I want to make sure no one gets hurt."

"Then maybe we should leave him in there."

"Love to," she quipped, popping open the lid to the trunk and ducking under it as he sidled up beside her. "But I try to avoid being that needlessly impolite."

Alaric just shook his head, then dipped in and got the unconscious Lee by the shoulders, hoisting him up out of the car and onto the walkway while she held up his ankles. "Where are we going with him?"

"Following Jeremy," she grunted, directing the way as they ambled down to the right door, which was propped open for them. "Just toss him by the radiator."

"You happen to have any cuffs handy?" he asked, letting Lee's deadweight drop onto the floor beneath the window, his head by the clunky radiator protruding from the wall.

"Nope," she said, straightening out and dusting her hands on the damp hips of her pants. Then she turned and ducked into the adjoining bathroom, ripping the shower curtain from the rod and winding it up around her arm—elbow to wrist—as she came back into the room. "So this'll have to do."

"Here," he said, gently taking it from her. "I'll do it."

Elena felt a brief sliver of gratitude warm her, making it harder to keep rigid on her feet. "Thanks," she murmured, letting the severity of her posture ease as she turned to face the rest of the room. Her eyes alighted on her brother and weary best friend. Jeremy was slouched down in one of the cheap armchairs on the other side of the pressboard bed. Bonnie was curled in his lap, her eyes having fallen closed. "Maybe you guys should switch rooms with Grace and Nicholas."

"Good thought," Jeremy quipped, shooting a poignant glance at the witch in his lap. "But I don't think she's going anywhere anytime soon, killer vamps or not."

Elena shrugged. "Well, I mean, he's not particularly murderous . . . exactly . . ."

"He's not moving," Alaric told her, rising after he finished binding Lee's wrists to several steel rungs of the radiator. "Go get some rest, Elena. I'll be here."

Reluctance flickered through her, but it was barely butterfly wings beneath the weight of her exhaustion. "Let me know when he wakes?"

The man gave her a silent nod, shifting to take a second chair on the opposite side of the bed, his back to the two teenagers behind him.

"Thanks . . ." And with nothing else, she shut the door on her way out.

The trek to her original room proved laborious. But once she made it, once she was able to fall back against the closing door and breathe out a sigh of immense relief, it was _all_ worthwhile.

She gave it a few long moments before she finally opened her eyes and inhaled, her gaze going straight to Damon's to find him in one of those standard armchairs, his calm cerulean stare steady on her. She cast a look over the rest of the room, sliding over Stefan where he was sprawled unconscious over one side of the bed, his wavy hair dripping a puddle of rain onto the white pillow beneath him.

No words were said, not even when she pushed away from the door and limped her way to the bathroom, carelessly shucking extraneous clothing off as she went.

Once inside, she left the door unsealed and flipped on the shower, letting it run for a spell to coax the hot water from the heater as she peeled the rest of her clothes away, grimacing when she went to unhook her bra. Her back felt like one big throbbing sore, pins and needles stabbing all the way across and flesh feeling sticky and scabbed. By far, it was worse than her slowly-recovering shin and ankle or the faint headache that lingered from her skull bashing into that stone of the altar. On the upside, though, her wrist felt good as new.

When she stripped the bra away, her hiss of pain brought the door creaking open in slow-motion, and Damon padded in, his footfalls inaudible as he joined her.

"I'm fine," she whispered without vehemence when his fingertips brushed the curve of her shoulder, making her stiffen with the anticipation of pain.

"Yeah," he drawled in a dry tone. "I can see that."

"It's just . . ."

"Here," he said, slipping a provided bath towel over her head and letting it drape over her, drawing her gingerly crisscrossed arms away from her chest. She hooked them over the towel, pressing it into her as he guided her toward the counter, still at her back.

After crouching down to dig under the sink for the first aid kit they'd brought along, Damon went about cleaning out her open wounds, a bottle of peroxide on the counter, a wet washcloth in one hand, and a pair of tweezers in the other.

Elena pressed her lips together, face paling as he dug the remnants of rock out of her flesh and she clutched the counter to keep her knees from giving out on her. The quiet of the room was deafening as moments dragged on between them, but with as many jagged shards of words she found herself wanting to say, nothing would form. She was too tired. Too shaken. Too . . . numb.

"I'm sorry," he said at last, unable to bear the thick quality of silence, even with the hammering hum of flowing water. "You were right, okay? I shouldn't have gone without you. I'm an idiot. Thank you for saving my ass."

Elena struggled for energy and brought her head up, her eyes catching on his in the mirror's reflection. Her lips fell apart, and she tried to force something out, but nothing would come. So she gave up, letting her head fall again and her mouth press closed. She nodded in response, but even that felt odd—empty and insufficient.

Damon's expression tightened, his eyes crinkling up in the corners with some unfamiliar emotion. He searched her reflection for a long moment, his hand stilling with the point of the tweezers poised over her as faint trickles of blood flowed down the subtle curve of her back to catch in the rise of her backside just an inch above the waistband of her boyshorts. It took an unbearably long pause, but he finally came across something and his face smoothed out, softening. "Elena . . ." he murmured, so soft she wanted to cry for a second or two. "Your mother is at peace."

Surprise brought her head back up, eyes fluttering. "What?"

Damon shifted his attention to her wounds, resuming his careful work. "Your mother, she's at peace. That vision back there had nothing to do with her. It was just parlor tricks, nothing more."

Elena went still. "What does that even mean?" she wondered softly, her eyes staring off into infinity. "At peace . . . in the afterlife? I never gave much thought to all of that—heaven and hell and the like. I don't think I really believed in any of it, not more than superficially anyway. But if everything else is real, I suppose those places are, too."

"I suppose," he echoed, his voice no more than an imperceptible sigh of air.

"It makes sense in a yin and yang sort of way. Energy is never destroyed, only reshaped, so I guess the same applies to the soul. Keeping the balance of existence," she whispered, eyes closed, head hanging down, damp curls creating curtains that kept him from seeing her face. "My mother would be somewhere serene and bright, someplace beautiful. I'm not so sure about my father, though."

At that, a quiet chuckle escaped him, rumbling shortly through his chest and quavering at his Adam's apple. "No?"

"No." She sighed, her fingers relaxing their grip on the counter as the pain began to ebb. "Have you ever thought about where you'll go if you ever die, Damon?"

"Of course I have."

"And?" she prodded, almost absentmindedly, her attention somewhere else. But she could tell he didn't intend to elaborate, so she moved on. "I think Stefan worries that he doesn't have a soul . . . because of what he is . . . what you all are. Do you think you have a soul, Damon?"

"Of course I have a soul," he told her, slanting closer and lowering his head to let his brow rest against the blanketed nape of her neck. "It may be black, but it's definitely there, princess."

Elena spent a moment listening to her heart pump in her chest, thinking idly that even that seemed tired. "How are you so sure?"

Setting the tweezers aside, he laid his hands carefully on the curve of each of her shoulders and took in a deep breath before he decided how to answer her. "Skyler held power over death, all sorts. But one thing she could never touch was a soul. That's why she merely held sway over our bodies, and not our wills. I think she spent a long time breaking that guardian of hers, because she couldn't just assume control over his mind and personality like she could his body. That's what she'd planned for Stefan and me. And she wouldn't have needed to do that if we had no souls to get in her way." He brushed a hand through her curling tresses, dusting them softly aside so he could press his mouth to the unmarred skin he exposed. "If we were truly soulless, she would have been able to make us no different than those corpses."

She went distant again, only half paying attention to his presence. "You have a soul."

"I have a soul."

"I don't know what difference that makes anymore. I never wondered if I had a soul or not. But I can't even begin to understand if that means anything at all. I don't care."

"Get some sleep," he said, divesting her of the last shred of bedrock and tossing the tweezers around her hip to let them clatter noisily into the basin of the sink. "You'll care when you wake up."

She wasn't sure she believed that, but she didn't bother admitting it, only dragged herself off of the counter and turned. Her arms crossed tightly over her torso, pinning the loose towel to her chest.

"All this philosophical pondering is bad for that soul you've been thinking so much about," he warned her, taking a reluctant step back to give her breathing space. "The best way to stay sane and somewhat content is to live day by day not thinking too deeply about how you do it."

"Hm." Her eyes roved away from him, landing on the shower. Steam had long ago filled the tiny box of a room, and she hoped—albeit halfheartedly—that the water hadn't lost its warmth yet. "I'm crusting," she said to the wall. "Need to clean myself off."

Damon nodded, turning for the door. "Just don't fall asleep. With our luck, you'd hit your head on the way down and it'd be the final straw."

"Hm."

"And Elena," he added, twisting on his way out and landing a hand on the doorknob, their eyes connecting in a frozen moment that made her heart beat stronger. "Just so you know . . . you kicked ass tonight."

Licking her lips, she turned away from him and reached for the vinyl curtain. "I did."

One corner of Damon's mouth hiked up into a crooked smirk, his eyes alight all of a sudden. "It was sexy as hell."

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips, but when she turned to retort, she found herself staring at a closed door, the room empty save for her poor mirror's reflection. "Sexy," she murmured to herself, feeling a wistful tendril of emotion flit through her as she dropped the towel, shimmied out of her underwear, and delved into the stream of water. "That's one word for it, I guess."

An hour. She ended up spending an hour under the pleasure of that assaulting spray, letting the dirt and grime rinse down the drain and take that feeling of used-up taint with it. She was still weary as all hell, but at least she was refreshed.

When she shut off the faucet and climbed out, wrapping a clean towel around herself, she found that Damon had left a pile of folded clothing on top of the closed lid of the toilet—a new set of undergarments, knit leggings that she found, upon investigation, were as soft as silk, and an oversized jersey shirt that hung to mid-thigh and threatened to swallow her whole.

Dressing became a more involved process than usual, but the damage across her back was almost completely gone, leaving mostly flawless skin between the slight surface scuffing that was taking its sweet time to repair. The headache was less noticeable. And the tibia bone in her shin that she'd felt shatter seemed okay now, though her leg as a whole was still a bit tender. One thing was for sure, though—her paintjob was beyond ruined. Not that she should've been sitting there painting her nails to begin with while her boys were suffering at the hands of a madwoman. But it was a 13 hour drive for backup . . . what else was she supposed to have done with her time?

Fully dressed and toweling through her sodden locks, Elena limped out into the room to find that Damon was back in his armchair and Jeremy was waiting in the doorway.

"Your friend's awake," he told her with a small tip of his head, easing out.

"Thanks, Jer." She dropped the towel onto the bureau as she passed by and followed him out onto the walkway, glancing out at the slowing sleet of rain across the lot as they made the trek in easy silence.

But a few paces short of the right room, her hand lashed out, catching him by the shoulder and jerking him to a stop, narrowly keeping them out of the line of fire as the door splintered off of its hinges and Alaric went flying past them.

The vampire landed when his back crashed into the grille of a parked pickup truck. His knees hit the cement of the walkway as he teetered. It was all of a millisecond before he was arcing to his feet, though, spine stiffening and knees bent into a defensive crouch.

Elena gave her brother one sharp shove, throwing him into the wall of weatherboarding behind her as she moved forward—only one thought echoing through her instincts: _Bonnie's in there_.

But there was no time, because the oncoming fight was cut short as a blur of wind and shadow forced its way past her, catching her in the shoulder and sending her spinning as it fled. Alaric was suddenly there, his hand on her arm keeping her from crashing into a nearby window, pulling her back to her feet instead. But once she was steady, his arm dropped and his feet began to move, intent on pursuit. She reached out, her lightning-quick reflexes the only reason she was able to catch him in time.

"No," she said, when he looked back at her with a quizzical expression. "Let him go."

"Are you sure?"

She nodded, her eyes following Jeremy as he shoved his way around them and rushed into the room to check on Bonnie. "I'm sure."

"What's with the ruckus?" Grace's singsong voice washed over them, and the duo turned to watch her come bouncing out of her room and sauntering up to them, Nicholas lagging a few paces behind her. She cast a quick look up and down them both before waving a dismissive hand in the air. "Never mind . . . I don't know about all of you, but I am _starved_."

Elena let a shuddering sigh of weariness escape her, and she fell back against the building, arms wrapping around her midsection, as if that would help keep her from dissolving into a pile of pieces on the ground. "You've sure got some pep in your step out of nowhere."

The redhead shrugged. "I bounce back quickly."

"I see that," she murmured a bit wryly, just as Jeremy and a perfectly-unharmed Bonnie stepped through the tatters of their door and came to join the others. "Um . . . there's a Denny's down the road . . . and a Red Cross on eighth."

Grace's Irish eyes sparkled and her hands came up to clap then rub together. "Well, let's get gone then."

"We'll stop at the bank on the way back and restock the cooler," Nicholas added, his voice soft with untouched exhaustion. And in that moment, Elena felt a pang of sympathy for the vampire. Even with his preternatural stamina, it must be hell trying to keep up with that sinfully chipper witch of his.

Without another word spoken, Grace pivoted on a heel and dragged Nicholas off to his humongous onyx Escalade. Jeremy and Bonnie silently decided to follow, climbing haggardly into the backseat before the engine revved to life and the SUV went swinging sharply out onto the rainy street.

Elena and Alaric watched the others leave, having fallen halfway to sleep right there on the walkway by the time he finally turned to face her. "That fire's going to attract a lot of unwanted attention," he told her, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pants. "If I can borrow a car, I'm going to go down to the precinct and tie up our loose ends."

_Compelling our way to untroubled-land_, she thought with a wry quirk to her lips, then murmured, "Take the Camaro," and let her eyes reclose. "You still have the keys?"

He gave her a curt nod, jingling the set in his pocket before he moved lazily past where she leant and made his way to the right parking space.

Rather than waiting to watch him drive away from her, too, Elena heaved a shaky sigh and pushed upright, moving back to her room.

Alone at last, an unseen and unrealized weight eased itself from her shoulders as she shut the door behind her and padded quietly across the room to join Damon, falling limply into the second hardback chair that rested alongside his.

After a long moment, she focused her eyes and followed his introspective stare to watch Stefan rest in the bed before them. Being able to actually look at him again after what seemed like so long was such an immense relief on its own that it left her limbs weak with warmth. Still—as always—it paled in comparison to the bad that lingered, hanging over her head. "Why isn't he waking?"

"Just give it time," Damon replied, his attention never wavering. "He's recuperating."

Taking in a deep breath and holding it in her chest, Elena blindly reached across the small distance between them, slipping her hand in his and twining their fingers. The slack touch of him remained for a long moment, and she found her heart stuttering curiously until he tightened his grip around hers with a soft sigh of contentment, holding her hand and letting the triggered warmth spark through them.

Letting the tension seep from her, she found her voice rising. "She had him for almost a month . . . God only knows what went on all that time."

He gave her a wry smile without actually looking at her and squeezed her hand. "Good thing we're resilient creatures."

Elena felt a ripple of resolve settle inside her, reminding her of what lay ahead. A wash of unwavering sadness coursed through her, secret and unbidden. "Good thing," she whispered, leaning her temple on his shoulder and letting her eyes drift out of focus, still lingering over Stefan's prone form. "Good thing . . ."

By the time the others returned, she was out cold, and Damon hadn't moved a muscle.

Relegated to duty, the witch's vampire entered, silent and uninvited. He moved past the bed to the pair of occupied chairs and, meeting Damon's sedated gaze, wordlessly set down a brown paper bag by his feet. Then he turned and left them alone again, not looking back.

Feeling a bit out of touch with reality, Damon slipped an arm around the small of Elena's back, swinging her smoothly into a careful hold the same moment he rose to his feet. Her head fell against his shoulder and her eyelids fluttered, but she didn't stir as he moved around to the other side of the room and lowered the sleeping girl onto the empty slice of mattress.

He hesitated—only for a brief moment—to watch and make sure she wouldn't wake, then turned his back and slid the drapes of the window to one side, letting in the evanescent glow of approaching dawn.

In the brown paper bag, he found a stack of donor's blood, unlabeled liquid packets with the protruding tubes at the seal untapped. There was a minifridge tucked under a kitchenette counter by the bathroom door, below a toy coffeepot and a tray of utensils.

Damon pulled out one of the smaller packets, rolled up the paper bag, and tucked it into the tiny fridge before making his way back to the bed. On his way, he caught the back of an armchair in one hand and swung it forward, propping it at the bedside and lowering himself into it, next to his brother.

He wasn't worried. He just wasn't. At least . . . not for his brother, that is. Still, it seemed that Stefan wasn't coming to anytime soon, so nourishment was on the safe side.

After managing to rouse him long enough to get him hooked, Damon pushed to the very back of his chair and leaned away, letting his semiconscious brother sustain himself.

On the other side of the bed, the seemingly peaceful Elena was suffering an endless nightmare, locked within the pressing confines of her subconscious, nonsensical and illogical in her hopeless terror. She knew she was dreaming, she knew she was asleep, somewhere deep down _she_ _knew_, but that didn't matter. That knowledge wouldn't set her free. It only made her feel more trapped . . . more helpless . . . more out of control . . . more insane.

_Foggy and splintered memories plagued her, memories she couldn't recognize, memories she shouldn't have._

_The suffocation of a corset squeezing her torso and her chest was only bearable because it was normal. It pressed in on her from all sides—trapping, caging, and stifling. The cool grit of dewy soil plastered her face, taking away the ability to breathe, searing through her lungs. The pull of her intricately upswept curls felt strange and lopsided, utterly ruined. The world was at once terrifyingly foreign and achingly familiar to her. It was all a painstakingly real touch against the smoky film of a lie._

_She lay on the ground, sinking in as the supple soil gave way to her weight. Her cheek pressed to the earth as she lay partly on her stomach and partly on her side, knees bent softly inward, fingers furled to palms on either side of her. Rich fabric pooled around her, hugging harshly across the length of her upper body before flowing outward to tangle haphazardly around her legs._

_Shadows danced through the world, lending to the acres of trees that swarmed her, rising high into the starry sky and creating a blanket of connecting treetops that domed over her, keeping her locked away within the darkness of the forest._

_It was rich, and wet, and dense, and the air was cold as ice and purer than anything she'd ever experienced. Relentless, it pricked at her skin._

_She lay there thinking, letting the leash on her mind drop, freeing herself even while succumbing to the masochistic need of reliving recent traumas._

_She remembered close-cropped blonde hair bristling against the sensitive flesh of her stomach, bared by the latches of her corset, bringing imperceptible bumps to the surface of her. She remembered the automatic arch of her hips in reaction to a touch she hadn't asked for, a touch she didn't want, and the whimper of revulsion that wanted to rise up in self-disgust. She bit it back, controlling what little she could. It was just anatomy, just biology, neurotransmitters and the rise of sensation to keep her safe. Not her fault. Not like she wanted it. A part of her understood that perfectly, the clarity of an animalistic yet sentient being inside of her, a being that hadn't always belonged but somehow fit perfectly._

_Noah Calhoun. She could put a name to the web of turmoil that still lingered, a name to the memory of sensation and the resultant damage._

_Damon. Stefan. Mom. Dad. Bonnie. Pearl. Jeremy. Angelique. Jenna. Emily. Grace. Isobel. Nicholas. Jenson. Alaric. Ben. Gabriel. Tyler. Caroline. Matt. Theresa. Skyler. Alejandro. Katherine. Sinclair. All of these feelings, memories, sensations . . . they had names. It brought a little sense to her slurry of a world, where nothing seemed connected and nothing was in the place it belonged. Nothing was as it should be here. Nothing she thought she understood made sense anymore._

_Everything she thought she knew proved untrue. And that left her lying there on the ground in a forest she recognized—even through the drastic differences—but couldn't seem to belong in._

"_I don't want to," she said suddenly, with no idea why, breaking apart the pressing silence and ushering in the return of passing time._

_Footfalls echoed in her ear, and she blinked, watching a pair of shiny black dress shoes glide into her narrow line of sight. Melding out of the shadows was a man—one who she believed for some unknown reason had been here all along. Yet she hadn't been aware of him before now._

_His presence bathed her in both candle wax warmth and frostbite ice. A chilling tingle of foreboding wriggled its way through her instincts, even as every nerve ending inside of her set on fire, scouring until she felt the need to gasp for air._

_A flash surged through her mind, the varnished ruby red of her fingernails contrasting vividly with the richness of his hair. She remembered the feeling of stroking her fingers through hair thick and coarse and the color of honey with tenderness, then twisting her fists in those short locks with viciousness, and tugging at them with passionate cruelty, one she'd never experienced before._

_The man kneeled beside her, tipping his head to one side as he looked down on her in total apathy. Looking up through fluttering eyelashes, she stared back. His rose red lips were stark against the pure porcelain of his flesh, a curving smile with no meaning behind it having possessed them. A pure shade of cornflower, his eyes shined in the shadows that had hold of them._

_Sinclair._

_He looked young, as deceptively young as he appeared appealing. And she felt a frisson of bitter anger at him for that, watching as he extended one of his arms and meticulously went about rolling up the sleeve of his frock coat. He exposed unmarred flesh, blanketed by a layer of fine golden hair, glinting pale under the dim moonlight._

_No words were needed, no gestures but that one made, because she already knew what he wanted—what he was expecting._

"_No," she said, her voice carrying an odd pitch she wasn't used to hearing from herself: unfamiliar and accented. "I don't want to."_

"_You do." He didn't even bother glancing up at her protest, only let his eyes fall shut and his head tilt back. She watched his slackened jaw open, lips drawing away from teeth as his pristine canines extended, sharpening to deadly points._

_As his beautiful face took on a hint of the monster that lurked within at the rise of hunger, the sympathy ache radiated through her own jaw, tingling yearningly in her gums, making her mouth water with desire. He brought his arm in, pressing it to his mouth as he bit down, opening his own flesh. And her breathing grew harsher, muscles coursing with liquid warmth and quivering with tension._

_Blood trickled across pale flesh, falling to fade into earth, as he lowered his arm to her, letting it masquerade as an offering. But she knew she had no choice. Not that she was sure she could refuse now even if she wanted to. As much as she hated him, now that she could see him for what and who he truly was, she couldn't defy. There was nothing left for her now. Nothing left for her but this._

"_Drink," he intoned, his voice darkly sweet and irresistibly demanding. "Drink, and feel my power . . . feel it become yours."_

_The warmth of blood hit her lips, shelled by the cool touch of his wounded flesh, and she felt herself awaken. She felt herself come alive._

_Arching off of the ground, she wrapped her slender fingers around his wrist and pinned him there as she opened her mouth, latching onto him, not satisfied with allowing it to pour inside her, instead needing to take it for herself._

_There was no going back now. He wanted to make her his. He wanted to shape her. And he had only just begun. All that came before was only a greeting, all the horror he'd shown her, the temptation of the liberated darkness she'd glimpsed, the offer of freeing her from her world of dreary misery, all of it had led to this one moment. And now . . . now she had made her final choice._

_It burned, knowing deep inside that he had just gotten exactly what he wanted, what she'd sworn he wouldn't, what he didn't deserve. He'd won, just like he promised. But she couldn't be bothered to care any longer. She was free . . . free of the life and everyone in it that had held her caged for so long . . . free of that only to be held even tighter by this creature who now completely owned her—heart, body, and mind. He couldn't touch her soul, no. But what did that matter? He'd already chased it away._

"_Elena . . ." someone called from the distance, making the edges of this world fray. But that wasn't right—Elena. Unless it was, and this was what wasn't right. It was hard to tell._

_Frowning as she struggled to understand, she watched Sinclair fade from existence, and it was as if he'd never been to begin with. She was alone, shaken, and the taste of his blood no longer zinged on the surface of her tongue._

"_Elena . . ." that jagged and tinny voice called again. "Elena, wake up."_

_She planted her palms in the soil and pushed, swaying improperly to her feet so she could stand and search the circle of her world. The voice was calling from beyond the trees, beyond the shadows, but she had no way to find it._

_Instead, she whirled on one heel and pivoted into motion, running, racing, weaving through the shadows of the trees, letting the hiss of branches slice across her skin as she waded deeper into the darkness, searching for an escape. She was too restricted. Too bound. She needed to be free. She had to find a way._

_Running, pounding bare feet against rich soil and the bite of protruding roots, she crossed the distance in moment, chest heaving, lungs burning, heart hammering deliciously._

_She couldn't say for sure how long she ran, how far she'd gotten, because the delirium of liberation fogged her mind, the desperation driving jolts of adrenaline to keep her pushing forward, keep her fighting. The shadows coalesced and creatures tried to stop her, cutting into her path, swarming, unformed hands straining to capture her. But they wouldn't. She wasn't letting them. She was free and that was how it was going to stay. No one would catch her. No one could tear her apart, because . . . she was too fast. She was quicksilver, flowing out of reach._

_The trees thinned, soil transitioning to rock, and without any other warning than those subtle shifts, she broke out of the forest and skidded to a sudden halt, arms pinwheeling, eyes widening, mere centimeters from the edge of a treacherous drop-off. She'd made it to the falls, and now she stood at the very top, her toes curling over the bitter edge of the cliff._

_Her pursuers let out a symphony of hissing as they skittered back into the shadow of the trees, fleeing from the sudden brightness of the moon as if it burned._

_She looked over her shoulder, throat constricting as she watched the shadows rustle with those creatures that chased her, those monsters that wanted to drag her back. She couldn't fight them—there were too many. But where was there left to run?_

_Wind livened, brushing through her wild tousles to make them dance away from her face, flowing over her trembling shoulders as she gasped for her breath. The creatures were growing restless as they paced the fringes of the shadows, their need intensifying. There was no time left._

_Stiffening, she swallowed hard and turned forward. Over the edge was more darkness, broken apart with clouds of mist a hundred feet below, and the sound of rushing water colliding with bone-crushing pressure. But there was no time._

_An unholy screech rose up from the woods behind her, and the trees exploded with a flock of aves. They were coming. They were coming for her. They would descend upon her and rip her to pieces, reveling in the sound of her horrific screams of agony and terror._

_Not gonna happen, she thought, then took two measured steps backward and forged ahead, lunging into the air as her body stretched out, arcing over the edge to fall through merciful air. And when the water hit, her body melted, going flaccid as she tumbled through the rapids, trusting them to protect her._

Awareness returned to Stefan with the cloying smell of burnt amber. Slowly cataloguing himself back into consciousness, he clambered to figure out what in hell was going on. He was on a bed, an unfamiliar one at that. He searched his mind, bewildered, but came up with nothing. Memory was a jagged web of incongruent reels with chunks taken and reassembled in a nonsensical order. On top of not knowing anything, he _ached_ insanely.

Cracking open his eyes, the first sight he stumbled across was his brother's form sprawled over an armchair nearby, his gaze directed down as he flipped dazedly through a magazine with his ankles propped up on a lower corner of the unfamiliar bed.

"You're awake," Damon chimed without looking up, his voice vacant. "It's about damn time, you annoying little sap."

Stefan's brow furrowed as his eyes finally focused. "Excuse me?"

Damon let out a sharp sigh, slouching deeper into the chair as he tossed the magazine away from him and crooked his elbows on the arms of the chair. The magazine hit the wall and landed in a flurry of glossed pages on the threadbare floor. "FYI, next time you're saving your own ass. Got it?"

A heartfelt groan rumbled up Stefan's chest as he forced himself upright, bringing his legs over the edge of the bed and planting his feet on the floor to keep steady. "What's happened?" he rasped, head falling to his hands as his elbows hit his thighs. Dizziness rushed through him, leaving an ache of hunger and weakness that radiated. Spliced impressions rose up, ushering in a remembered panic. "Where's Elena?"

Damon let out another sigh, this one full of impatience and halfhearted irritation. He licked his lips, nodding to a point over his brother's shoulder, where she was lying on the other edge of the bed, her sleeping form restless and luminescent.

The urgency fled him, and Stefan exhaled, relaxing as the worry faded. "How long have I been out?"

"Since two—" Stefan glanced toward the bedside clock, which shined 10:00 a.m. "—that's Friday's two."

"And today?" he asked, brow creasing as he dragged a hand over his face.

"Saturday morning," Damon replied, his eyes going to the window to point out the bright daylight streaming in. The birds were making a lot of noise, and the steady hum of traffic was distant. "You've been out almost 32 hours. That's a shitload of beauty rest. What the hell have you been doing all month?"

"All month," Stefan murmured, head in his hands again as he stared at the carpet, his shoulders hunched. He'd been gone a month? "With Skyler?" he asked. "I remember . . . I was on my way to Baton Rouge, right? To see Lexi's girl. It's been a month?"

Damon nodded, letting his lips quirk in mild amusement. "And you don't remember any of it. That's just _swell_. Too bad that rest of us do."

"Where are we?"

"Still in Baton Rouge," Damon said, jerking his feet off the corner of the bed and rising from his chair. "The others, they all piled up into Nic's clunker and rode off into the sunset already. Said they'd see us back home."

"Others?"

"That's right." Damon ducked down, snatching a packet of donor's blood out of the minifridge in the kitchenette and making his way back. "The cavalry came rushing in to lend a hand. Nic and Grace, Elena's baby bro and the pint-sized witch—even the schoolteacher," he drawled, offering out the packet and waiting, their gazes locking when Stefan finally accepted the packet.

"Thanks . . ."

Damon shrugged it off, drawing back and collapsing back into his chair with a lazy ease. "I must say, I was impressed. I've never had an actual cavalry before. Not that they came for me—or you. Elena's the reason."

"Isn't she always?" Stefan mused under his breath, head down as his fingers worked sedately at unsealing the packet.

"So you should thank her. Not just for that, either. Part of what you don't remember is her rescuing both our asses."

"From what?" he asked, looking up at last. His eyes found Damon in all his practiced nonchalance and Stefan felt a wash of sentimentality touch him, overwhelmed a heartbeat later by the confusion. "What've I missed?"

Damon harrumphed at that, casting his attention away. "Boy, what a loaded fucking question that one is." And at Stefan's quizzical look, he let out a long sigh. "Well . . . I suppose we should start with last weekend."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Life's a Bed of Thorns~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later in the afternoon, Elena hooked her bag over one shoulder and climbed from the Camaro, holding the keys in her hand and jangling them as she trembled, almost imperceptibly.

She'd gone out using the excuse of food. Really, she was just looking for Lee. She had been sure she'd find him at what was left of Malone Manor, but by that time, he'd been long gone. She couldn't say for sure why she went—just that she felt that she needed to. If he was still hanging around, she wanted to be able to talk to him. Apologize for lying, for drugging him, and try to make sure he would be okay now on his own. But intuition told her that he'd already skipped town. And there really wasn't anything she could do for the man, so she wasn't going to bother tracking him down, even if she could.

On her way back, though, she'd summoned the courage to make one last stop before she returned to the inn, using the last of her emergency cash on a ticket from the depot. Right this moment, it was burning a hole in her bag . . . which might have had something to do with why she was trembling as she made her way up the walk and to the right door.

Everything in her was saying that this was the right thing to do—_the only thing_—but knowing that didn't make this any easier. She could feel the pressure building inside of her, both a slow burn and a simmering hurt. She would breakdown, no doubt about it. She would fall to pieces, and it would take more energy than she had right now to repair herself. But there was something she had to do first, before she could let that happen. She had to hold herself together through this, damn it. She would _not_ lose it here. Not yet.

The murmur of their contrasting voices rising and falling filled her ears as she froze with her palm against the door. A small smile curved her lips, bittersweet pleasure fluttering like butterflies in her stomach. The wolf was unusually placid, when Elena had expected a fight. Defying her wolf would have made this a little easier. The spark of struggle would have been distracting enough, and the resultant surge of stubbornness would have given her strength. But no, she wasn't even allowed that slight mercy.

She was on her own for this one, utterly on her own.

"Find what you were looking for?" Damon asked when she forged gently inside, his gaze unmoving from his brother.

Another jolt of tension slithered around her, and Elena felt the beginnings of a serious migraine as she retorted, "In a manner of speaking."

He was leaning against the pressboard bureau, his arms folded over his chest and his ankles crossed out in front of him. The burgundy shade of his loose button-down shirt pronounced the paleness of his complexion. And she could see from the reserved façade he'd adopted that he knew something was wrong.

Standing in the doorway, Elena slid her eyes off of him, roving to the other end of the room, where Stefan stood in the kitchenette, his spare clothes crinkled and his auburn locks wet, a damp towel hanging absently over his shoulder. He looked distracted, and he still seemed weary—not physically anymore, but mentally, and spiritually. Realizing that only made this even harder for her.

Doubt surged for the umpteenth time, and she debated whether or not she should wait for a better time. But she forced it aside a second later. There was no better time. This was it. _Now or never_, she firmly told herself, taking in a deep breath and pushing the door shut behind her.

"How are you feeling?" Her eyes were hesitant as they alit on Stefan, her palms pressing flat against the door behind her bracingly.

"Fine," he said, turning fully to face her as the set of his shoulders tightened. He was only just picking up on what his brother had noticed. "I still don't remember anything."

"Maybe it's for the best then." Elena paused, her eyes darting between them as she took another deep breath. _Now or never_. "I, um . . ." Swallowing hard, she leaned away from the door, feeling her shoulders hunch and her head go down as she set Damon's keys onto the table beside the door and reached into her bag to reluctantly pull free the Greyhound ticket she'd purchased. She cradled it between both of her trembling hands and fought against the fact that she was ashamed for having to do this. She didn't want to be—she wanted to be righteous and graceful and guiltlessly smart—but she didn't feel any of those things. Just Ashamed. "I'm going home."

The silence was deafening as it drew out between them, and it wasn't until movement by the bureau startled her that she was able to force her head up, biting down and locking her joints as her face smoothed out.

"Elena?" Stefan asked, so many questions blooming with just that one word. Her eyes went to him, steadfastly keeping herself from wavering. In her peripheral, she watched Damon as understanding dawned and settled in the pit of his stomach like lead. His easy façade slipped, only to be replaced by a look of stoic shock. Glancing at his brother, Stefan understood as well. "Elena."

A bit of that weight eased from her shoulders, and she was able to straighten them, lifting her chin. "I know the timing is horrible, but if I don't go now, I won't be able to."

"You're being ridiculous," Damon managed, still looking slightly ill and disbelieving. "We'll drive back together. It's not like . . ." His words trailed off and he glanced at his brother, floundering.

She inhaled, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around her middle. "I need to go now. I can't be here anymore. This, uh, this has to end. I'll find my own way back."

"Elena," Stefan called softly, struggling to keep the imploring tilt out of his tone. "I don't get it. What happened?"

"Nothing," she said, shaking her head, looking anywhere but at either of them. "Everything. She was right, my mother. What she said in that room—she was right."

As Stefan's expression creased in confusion, grasping for a memory, Damon straightened. "Elena, come on. That was just an illusion."

"I know that. But it was also the truth."

Stefan took a step for her then. "What are you talking about?"

Damon's eyes never left Elena. "So we're tearing you apart. We've 'broken' you?" he asked, raising his brow at her in challenge. "And you think taking a bus home is going to make everything all better?"

The look in his eyes drew her taller, his unsaid words igniting her helpless anger. "Don't call me a coward," she snapped, fire sparking through her misery. "Don't you dare look at me like that, you have no right. I'm doing the only thing I can, and you know it. For myself, yeah—but also for us all, and you know that too."

His mask turned hard and unforgiving. "What I know is that you're trying to run away. You think it will do you any good?"

"Damon," Stefan warned, tensing where he stood. "Stop, right now."

"Of course," his brother scoffed. He was chalk-full of both old and new bitterness. "Saint Stefan's going to _respect her decision_, no questions asked. It'll just be something else for you to brood your tortured little soul over, brother."

Stefan's hands clenched at his sides, his frustrated eyes intensely focused. "It's not fair to ask her for this, Damon."

"Fair?" Damon balked, his temper rising. "Life isn't fair, Stefan. Get over it already. The rest of us have."

"This was a mistake," she whispered from her corner of the room, and cringed at the shaky sound of her own voice. _I will not cry. I will not cry._ "We should have never let it get this far. I'm taking myself out of the equation before it's too late."

Damon whirled on her, biting out, "That's awfully kind of you, _princess_."

"I'm sorry."

Her expression went cold in defense as he sneered at her. "You're the one that dragged us into this mess. And now you're just going to wash your hands and prance away because you don't want to deal?"

The other man's face twisted into a pained grimace. "It's no one's fault. We both dragged her into it for all the wrong reasons. Not the other way around. Just because things have changed, doesn't make us any less responsible for our own situation. Damn it, Damon. For once in your life, think about someone other than yourself. Listen to what she's trying to say."

"I am listening," Damon spat, his jaw clenching. "I get it. You think I don't? Just because I won't roll over and take it like a bitch, doesn't mean I don't get it."

"Hey!" Elena cried as indignant offense rippled through her. "Watch it, okay? There's nothing wrong with being a bitch."

Stefan sent her a wry look as Damon guffawed, taking a step back in surprise. "Oh, that's right. I almost forgot."

A moment of stillness swept over them, and with it the boiling tension in the room began to ebb. Elena slumped back against the door with a soft sigh, Damon to the bureau, and Stefan moved distractedly to an empty armchair to sink down into it, wearing a grim expression.

Elena swallowed hard past the lump in her throat and took in a decided breath of air, folding her arms again. The ticket was still clutched in one hand. "I'm sorry. I really am. But I need you both to be happy . . . I need you both to feel loved. And that's never going to happen if I stay."

Stunned and shaken, Damon and Stefan turned from her, meeting each other's gazes. "You're just going to let her go?"

"I don't want to."

". . . Me neither . . ."

They sunk back into silence, and Elena sighed, feeling the hopeless sadness creeping into the forefront of her being again. Ties were being severed here, because she had resolve—as painful and daunting as it was. She had to go, but she needed them to understand first. "We all knew this was coming."

"Yeah," Stefan murmured, not looking at anyone or anything now. "I guess we did."

Damon refolded his arms over his chest, locking his jaw. His eyes fixed on the headboard across from him and that's where they stayed.

She wanted so badly to go to him, ease that tension and turmoil, but she had the same urge for Stefan, and even if she was willing, she wouldn't know who to go to first. And with that reminder driving her on, Elena straightened, gripping the strap of her bag. "If I choose one of you and not the other—if I don't—either way there's too much at stake. Too much jealousy. Too much resentment. If I don't get out now, all we'll do is hurt each other. And you both know it's true."

No one answered her. No one even moved.

"I'm sorry," she said again, softer this time, even as her throat began to close. "But this is the way it has to be." And with that, Elena turned and slipped out the door, screwing her eyes shut and making a blind but brisk escape. Her body was tingling with the need to go back, her wolf whining in accepted sadness, her soul probably weeping. But she ignored it, forging onward like she knew she had to.

What other choice was there? She was a survivor. Always was. Always would be.

* * *

**Finis  
**

_In the Works: Keep a look out for the next installment of the Life's a Bed of Thorns saga._

_Thank you and Good Night._

_- Sarah Rose Serena  
_


	12. The Soundtrack

**Life's a Bed of Thorns**

**The Soundtrack**

* * *

1. _Running Up That Hill_ - Placebo

2. _The Lightning Strike_ - Snow Patrol

3. _Pain _- Three Days Grace

4. _The Differences Between Us_ - The Dead Weather

5. _Mad House_ - Rihanna

6. _Pride _- Syntax

7. _Take It Off_ - Ke$ha

8. _Out of This World_ - Bush

9. _Beautiful Girl_ - Broken Iris

10. _I'm Not Jesus_ - Apocalyptica

11. _Torn _- Creed

12. _Bad Romance_ - Lady Gaga

13. _Headstrong _- Trapt

14. _Howl _- Florence and The Machine

15. _Coming Undone_ - Korn

16. _Stricken _- Disturbed

17. _If I Had You_ - Adam Lambert

18. _Brighter Than Sunshine_ - Aqualung

19. _Uninvited _- Alanis Morisette

20. _Bruises and Bitemarks_ - Good with Grenades

21. _Silence Must Be Heard _- Enigma

22. _Violet Hill_ - Coldplay

23. _Disturbia _- Rihanna

24. _Everybody Loves Me_ - OneRepublic

25. _Starstruck _- Lady Gaga

26. _It Is What It Is_ - Lifehouse

27. _Make Me Wanna Die_ - The Pretty Reckless

28. _I Like It_ - Enrique Iglesias ft. Pitbull

29. _Somewhere a Clock is Ticking_ - Snow Patrol

30. _Stupid _- Sarah McLachlan

31. _Bury Me Alive_ - We Are The Fallen

32. _So Cold_ - Breaking Benjamin

33. _I'm Only Human_ - Thriving Ivory

34. _Inside the Fire _- Disturbed

35. _Cold _- Crossfade

36. _Dead and Gone_ - TI ft. Justin Timberlake

37. _Every You, Every Me_ - Placebo

38. _All I Need_ - OneRepublic

39. _Closer _- Kings of Leon

40. _The Animal I've Become_ - Three Days Grace

41. _So Far Away_ - Staind

42. _Ain't No Rest For The Wicked_ - Cage The Elephant

43. _Meteor Shower_ - Owl City

44. _Rude Boy_ - Rihanna

45. _Until We Bleed_ - Lykke Li

46. _Papercut _- Linkin Park

47. _Fallen _- Sarah McLachlan

48._ Broken_ - Lifehouse

49. _I'm Not Alright_ - Sanctus Real

50. _Counting Bodies_ - A Perfect Circle

51. _Behind Blue Eyes_ - Limp Bizkit

52. _Letting the Cables Sleep_ - Bush

53. _The Noose_ - A Perfect Circle

54. _Somewhere I Belong_ - Linkin Park

55. _The Sound of Silence_ - Simon and Garfunkel

56. _Crawling _- Linkin Park

57. _The Chemicals Between Us_ - Bush

58. _Twilight _- Vanessa Carlton

59._ Silence _- Delirium ft. Sarah McLachlan


End file.
